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I am not going to survive this semester. There are three weeks left, and I am not going to make it. Give  my love to coffee.

Eh, coffee probably already knows.

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I am writing this from the front lines, where “the front lines” is “the classroom in which I am spending 75% of my on-campus academic time.” Based on how ridiculous most of grad school has been I am kind of surprised this room isn’t totally covered with bits of stress-shredded paper and coffee stains and the wall dents of stress-fueled mental breakdowns.

Mostly it’s just that the tables are a little too close and the chairs don’t match instead. Well done, this room. Maybe all the people who spend at least three hours a week trapped in here are stronger than we think. I currently feel as though I have the mental fortitude of a Trader Joe’s paper bag handle that’s been pulled horizontally instead of vertically, but maybe not.

Some of the tables have drawers, though for some reason most of the drawers face the people sitting at the next table on. Some of the drawers have remnants of office supplies; I found a bright red binder clip once, and the high from that fueled the whole rest of the day. I looked in a different drawer some weeks later and found vending machine trash. One of my classmates told me she found a dead roach once. I don’t think I’ll be investigating the drawers very often from now on.

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In approximately three and a half hours, I will be giving my major presentation. Then I will go home and tipsily clean my room. I am looking forward to both the tipsy part and the cleaning part and especially the part where I don’t have to worry about this presentation anymore. My professors have, of course, provided me with lots of other things to worry about.

But fear not, gentle readers! It is not all tortured academia; some of it is minor parking violations for which by some miracle I was charged a great deal less than I should have been. I am counting that whole experience as a plus.

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