And So...

As of 11:20 this morning (Canadian Atlantic Time), I finished my first year of university. (Excluding the exams I have to write during the next two weeks.)

And if you ask me, it's about freaking time.

I will never be able to understand how a semester that is at least a good month and a half shorter than any semester from high school can both feel extremely long and extremely short at the same time. It plays with my mind, and I don't like it.

But either way, it's over now. I only have one term paper to write, four exams to take, a lot of packing to do, two flights to catch and in two weeks I'll be blogging from my parents basement.

I'm shooting for the stars, clearly.

Seriously, though, it's gotten to that point of the school year. You know what I'm talking about. The point when it really doesn't matter what courses you're taking, where you're taking them or who you're taking them with--you honest-to-God could not care less about school anymore. (This is made obvious by the fact that I am blogging instead of writing the term paper that's due on Tuesday.)

I honestly think that everyone starts the school year with the best of intentions. We have shiny new binders and brand-spankin'-new paper and millions upon millions of pens and pencils just waiting to be used. We have our class schedules mapped neatly out before us, and we tell ourselves, "This year will be different! This year I will finish all of my homework the day it has been assigned, I will study for all of my tests weeks before I take them, and my notes will be neat and perfect!"

HA HA HA. We're so funny.

I can't even begin to count the number of times I've told myself this at the beginning of the school year. And for the first couple weeks or so, I somewhat manage to pull through with it.

But then something happens. Something comes up. I decide to watch a movie instead of doing my English readings. "It's no big deal," I say. "I can catch up this weekend."

And it continues. I leave entire papers until the day before they're due. I fall weeks behind in my class readings. My notes are either illegible or non-existent. "No big deal," I say. "I can catch up this weekend."

And then a day comes when I take one look at the calendar and one look at my ever-growing to do list and realize, "I cannot physically do all of this in one weekend."

And that is that point. That point in which I dismiss my unfinished readings with a careless wave of my hand. That point in which I stop trying to pay attention in class, whip out my journal and write for the entire period. That point in which I honest-to-God could not care less about anything my professors have to say, because hey, the semester's over, anyways, and I'll forget absolutely everything I've learned over the summer, because who the hell actually deeply analyzes literature in their spare time to begin with?

That point is also the point where you are avoiding pretty much anything school related, but you can't really do anything you truly love to do because then you'd feel guilty that you're not studying. So instead you end up browsing through Facebook or Tumblr or random Wikipedia articles, and even though you know that you'll totally hate yourself for it at the end of the day, it's still totally okay because at least for now you can push back that guilt and post 20 tweets in three minutes.

Clearly, we're all shooting for the stars.

If you're waiting for my point to this post, the conclusion to this long, drawn-out entry, the wise message hidden behind my run-on sentences and excessive use of italics...then you're clearly wasting your time and putting way too much faith in me. I have no message of wisdom to pass along to you guys this week; these are only my observations as I continue to procrastinate my own studies.

It may not have anything to do with writing, but hey, at least it gives me something to write about.


Until later,

- Justyne