In two weeks, I’ll be done with my fifth semester as a university student. Ho-ly shitballs.
I have a paper to write for my literary analysis class: ten pages plus works cited on McCarthyism in Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” and Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron” (yes, I picked that topic). I probably have an exam in geography, but honestly, I haven’t been to class in two weeks. I have a French exam, which should go fairly well.
I’ve accepted an incomplete in my novel-reading class, which doesn’t faze me in the least. Earlier in the semester, I dropped out of an online class on contemporary Scottish authors. As far back as I can remember, I haven’t had a semester in which I’ve completed every assignment, and it’s only gotten worse since I started university. I’ve never passed all of my classes in a semester.
I have no clue when I’ll graduate, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.