I’m horrible at transitions and I don’t really do change. But apparently in a few months I won’t have a choice. I’ve completed eight semesters, finished all my required classes, and grown out of my fake ID.
It’s not that I don’t know where time went; it went towards the long class lectures, te bar-hopping, the “Tennis Pros and Golf Hoes” parties, the blizzard sledding (and subsequent frostbite), the jello-shot making, the endless Sex and the City viewings, the random hook-ups, the awkward morning-afters, and the all-day brunch recaps. And while I’ll leave college with amazing memories and textbooks the bookstore refused to take back, I’ll also leave with no idea of what I’m going to do with my life (and how I’m going to afford it.)
So, even though I have an entire semester left, I can’t stop myself from stressing myself into oblivion as I sit in my room with growing anxiety. I WebMD-ed myself to figured out what my problem was and all I came up with was a diagnosis that gave me a month to live. (Sidenote: I have to stop using WebMD.) My mom claims this is normal, my friends are experiencing the same thing, and yet I can’t help asking around for Xanax.
But apparently the health center doesn’t prescribe Xanax as freely as they write out pregnancy diagnoses, so I went with my only other option – blogging – in hopes another senior feels the same way. So every time I have a panic attack about being an adult or a wave of nostalgia that sends me for one last bathroom-tastic meal in the dining hall, I’ll be writing.