"And like that -- ::pfft:: -- he's gone"
December 05, 2004
So I handed my final big piece of crap in. Whatever, it�s done, and honestly, though it is BAD it isn�t as bad as it was when it started out. I hope. I think. Because honestly, I�m so done. I�m never doing this again. I got two hours of sleep last night, and now I am at work till 9pm. The upside (which, admittedly, is a very, very upside) is that my baby brother will be back by the time I get home. Inshallah. I can�t wait. It�s funny being on this end of things. I was always so bored upon arriving home from college, and I never got what the hype was all about. But now that I�m on the other end, I�m just so excited. I can�t wait to see my �little� six-foot-three habibi.
But oh, oh, I�m so tired. Yeah, yeah, it�s all my fault. Who told me to slack off for a year and then cram two comprehensive exams, two thirty-page papers in lieu of thesis, and one short incomplete into the span of one month and a half? The devil that�s who. The devil and my own dumb brain that just won�t listen to the reasoning it provides me, free of charge.
You know, throughout this whole process, especially recently, I�ve been frantically staving off thinking about the thing that really bothers me the most in this situation. I put myself through a year of doubts about whether or not I could finish TDM, about whether or not I deserved it, and on top of that I totally prevented myself from doing a lot of things out of guilt for not having done TDM. A whole year (well, almost) during which I could have done any of the following things, but didn�t because I thought �I should finish TDM first�: Gone to Italy and Malta this summer; Started German classes; Started Oud lessons; Taken a drawing and painting course; Gone to Sharm al-Shaikh with friends, on several occasions; seen Mean Girls and 13 Going on 30 when they were in the theater. Shut up. I have priorities.
Anyway, I kind of feel like Kevin Spacey at the end of The Usual Suspects. I feel like they�re going to (please god please) grant me the masters, and then slowly Professor A. will look up, drop his Kobayashi mug on the floor, and realize that the harmless gimp just fooled him. Big time. Except by that time it will be too late. The ever-cool Pete Postelthwaite will be rolling up in a black beemer, handing me my solid gold lighter and a packet of Dunhills. As Professor A. runs outside in the hopes of catching me and snatching the totally undeserved degree from my hands, I will just be driving off, cigarette lit, bwahahaha-ing into the night.
Thus ends an era.