Orange Rhymes With: At semester’s end: The final countdown Guru sketch - Illustration by Casey Kleeb Full view

Orange Rhymes With: At semester’s end: The final countdown

Illustration by Casey Kleeb

T-Minus 42 Hours

Finals? Not my problem. I’ve stocked up on six different types of coffee and enough chai tea to withstand the impending Mayan apocalypse. Sure my professors were kind enough to schedule all of my exams within a two day time-frame, but hell, I’ve done worse. (Post-finals spoiler alert: No, no I haven’t done worse.)

I’m actually fairly relaxed as I write this column, sitting in the commons listening to some guy (who will henceforth be known as “Broimus Maximus”) list off all of the yoga pant clad asses he’s checked out today. It’s really a spectacular situation all around. (Though honestly if yoga pants were designed to leave anything to the imagination then someone made a serious design flaw.) Damn, I’m off topic again. See this is what happens when you combine minor stress with yoga pants. Check back with me in a day or so, I’m sure I’ll have everything under control.

T-Minus 23 Hours

Control is tricky. It turns out that positive thinking and denial are not adequate substitutes for actually studying and learning the material for my accounting final. I feel as if I should have been warned of this in the course syllabus. Either way I still feel like I have a loose grasp on this finals business. I’ve got at least half of my coffee reserves left over and I’ve yet to start trying to stick office supplies to my ceiling. There’s still plenty of time to learn a semester’s worth of material and it’s perfectly feasible for me not to sleep for four days. Besides, it’s not like I’ve ever been one to get overly stressed out over simple life events like tests…

T-Minus 16 Hours

It’s been a cold, dark day on Stress Mountain. As the final hours draws near I begin to think, wistfully, of the simple days of midterms. The days where beer flowed freely from every tap and hope ran rampant like plague rats in Europe. The days where every speaker played Scottish indie music and every television showed Lost reruns. Life was so easy in that highly imaginary time. I need to do something, anything to relieve the stress and raise my productivity back to human levels. Maybe if I could find some way to ferment the energy drink cocktail I’ve created (equal parts Red Bull, Amp, Rockstar, motor oil and lava lamp fluid) and brew it in my supercharged coffee pot.

T-Minus 15 Hours

Oh God, it went wrong. Something went horribly, horribly wrong. The flames are creeping up the walls, incinerating any trace of coherent thought that had managed to survive thus far. In my delirious state I can almost see the faces of my professors, suspended amongst the blaze, frowning with disapproval as they inform me that I’ve failed every test. And for some terrifying reason they’re all speaking in the voice of my seventh grade gym teacher. Oh the unimaginable horror. It’s like every positive though in the world has been sucked out of the entire campus. The entire world around me is spinning as the stress starts to overtake my entire reality.

T-Minus 8 Hours

I just woke up, my face covered in drool, clutching a pineapple lamp with a German translation of Scrubs blaring in the background. I must have blacked out from that unholy concoction of energy. (I blame the Red Bull, because that lava lamp fluid was definitely FDA approved). On the plus side I appear to have learned German in my altered state. So that’s, you know, unsettling. I’ve still got a chance at this though; I’ve got a full eight hours before I’m forced to reveal that I’ve learned absolutely nothing this semester. (Unless one of my professors is reading this, in which case all of your respective subjects are vitally important to me. Have I mentioned how I find you all inspiring as educators?)

T-Minus 4 Hours

So I decided to cut my own hair. It was late (or early, I don’t have a strong concept of time anymore) and I wasn’t thinking clearly. It looks like Picasso dropped acid and was handed pruning shears in the dark. I guess this is it; the end. I always thought it would be more thrilling. Like a death by misadventure involving a Finnish mime, two pineapples and a hot air balloon. Too late for that now I suppose. Here we go.


Huh. That was actually somewhat manageable. Granted, I absolutely dropped at least a letter grade in every course, but I’m surprisingly still breathing afterwards. Now I can get a head start on sleeping for a month, you know, once the twitching wears off. Oh well, I wonder how Broimus Maximus did on his exams.

Ah, yoga pants, aaaaaand we’re back.

Written by Evan Dodd