Hello all! If you're a college student, then I'll pose this question to you: How did your finals week start?
Really? Cool. Mine started with a car accident. I don't even know if more needs to be said on that but as you can imagine it sucked. I was the driver. Of someone else's car. I didn't have my license with me. A recipe for disaster one might muse. Nah, not too much disaster just a lot of guilt for crashing the bf's car.
Moving on. A hypothetical situation, of course: You know when you're assigned a paper probably over a week from when it is due? You've been doing the assigned readings for class of the hearty novel Atonement (excellent novel, that Briony is a real cunnilingus though), so, naturally, you expect the essay to be on said novel. You've even been putting tiny yellow post-its in the parts that count because, from past experience, you know it is a real bitch to go back in a book to find the necessary quotes to make a strong paper. All is well in the land.
You finish the novel, feeling a bit depressed, confused and victorious - for you've just killed Briony Tallis by flipping the last page (reaaaally did not like her). Ah, time to get this essay done early, you say, giving yourself a solid two days. You whip out the essay topics, an action that you perform with the utmost distaste. You slowly and superciliously cast your eyes down to the paper once you deem it worthy of your glance. What topic can throw me? you wonder, since, you are a master of Atonement at this point. Hell, you feel like you're the one who got between Cecilia's legs. And then it happens.
What. The. Fack.
Your eyes instantly widen, your mouth slightly agape and nostrils at full flare. You even feel a subtle sheen of sweat begin to condense on your unwavering forehead like water drops on a glass of iced tea that has been left on some old woman's porch for far too long. Unsweetened. You cringe at the thought and slap yourself back into reality. Defining the identity of woman and what it means to be woman during the Great War (WWI - obviously it was not called WWI before WWII). Not the plan... You purse your lips in confused disappointment, set the paper down (still looking at it), walk into the kitchen.. and warm up a s'mores Pop-Tart. It's the only thing that seemed to salvage the situation aside from telling the professor you had somehow lost both of your hands and would not be able to write the essay. The Pop-Tart seemed less dramatic. Of course, this is all hypothetical... -_-