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Dreaded senioritis plagues upperclassmen

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Dreaded senioritis plagues upperclassmen

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 It’s midnight and I turn over and pull the covers over my head. I’ve just finished my fourth episode of Mad Men with no sign of homework in the near future.

It’s the sixth of April, and a sickness is plaguing my body and mind.

 A year ago, things were different – but everything changed when senioritis attacked my body.

 It started towards the end of senior fall semester; winter solstice was approaching and it seemed that my motivation was dissipating at an alarmingly fast rate.

  At first I assumed it was normal but soon, I couldn’t do any homework without at least putting it off for two hours.

  When I first went to the doctor, they told me not to worry and that it might not be senioritis. However, after a few preliminary tests, to my dismay, the senioritis had spread into my muscles, lymph nodes, brain and grades.

  I still remember the doctor’s somber gaze pressing into my soul and the bright lights in my face as my diagnosis was explained.

  “There is no coming back from this when it has already progressed this far,” she said as she wiped a single tear from her face. “I wish we could have caught it earlier.”

  These days, it’s like I can’t do anything without a groan of agony escaping from my decrepit body.

  As a result of my diagnosis, I don’t fall asleep until two or three in the morning. The time from 11 p.m. to 3 a.m. is typically spent laying on my back contemplating the meaning of my existence and reading books that aren’t for class.

  Around 1 a.m. after reading some Camus, I cynically conclude that there is no real meaning to life and that everything we do, despite our best efforts, is astronomically insignificant.

  Around 2 a.m. after reading Frost, I decide that I want to go frolic in the freshly bloomed, spring dandelions and drop out of school so I can watch nature’s first green turn to gold.

  Around 3 a.m. I read some Bukowski and I realize many people’s optimism is disguised with cynicism and misanthropy, maybe even my own.

  At 3:30 a.m. I negate all prior beliefs, ultimately determining that I know nothing. Then I take a swig of nyquil and set my alarm for 8 a.m..

  I wake up in a fog, due to not sleeping the full 7-8 hours suggested by the nyquil label, and I’m confused and a bit agitated, since my mom is yelling. I turn over and put a pillow over my head.

  The next thing I know, water is surging onto my face. I pull the pillow off and look at my poor enervated mom.

  I rub my eyes and get dressed in less than seven minutes, rushing down the stairs. I almost trip while  taking a quick look at my frantic self in the mirror.

  I laugh – I have seven point seven seconds allocated for laughing in the morning, six minutes for dressing, two minutes for eating and three for kissing my dog goodbye. Anything else will result in me being late for the millionth time.

  My dad throws me a fiber one bar, my mom hands me a water and I kiss my dog goodbye as I try to avoid a lecture about regressing on my way out the door.

 

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Dreaded senioritis plagues upperclassmen