Photo courtesy of kulfoto.com
Photo courtesy of kulfoto.com
Photo courtesy of kulfoto.com

By SARAH LEWIS, Editor-in-Chief

I think the ice on the ground is a metaphor for this semester. I can’t walk on ice without falling directly on my patootie. Thus I won’t be getting through this semester unscathed much like I had imagined. The unbecoming, unexplainable rash that sprouted on my arm overnight last week made me face the reality of extreme trauma. Is this real life?

Why do I have a foul arm rash, you ask. Well, the answer is simple, dear readers. In just three months I won’t be writing this column ever again. Instead of rambling on about my weekly worries to a bunch of people who probably don’t know me, I’ll be hiding those worries so they eat away at my subconscious for Lord knows how long. Imagine how much stress rash I’ll be covered in then.

I have to be an adult soon. A real adult with a college degree, dress pants, career, sophisticated laugh, taxes, and maybe even a briefcase. I hate the unknown, and I don’t like briefcases…or taxes.

Nine completed credit hours separate me from the sought after piece of paper. Nine completed credit hours separate me from partial normalcy to complete insanity.

I’d rather lie in bed eating Munchkins from Dunkin Donuts and watching the Harry Potter weekend that ABC Family seems to play every weekend of the year, although I’m not complaining. I can’t think about applying for careers, buying a car, or renting an apartment without subconsciously scratching my rash.

If you think I’ve come up with a level headed solution to how I’m going to approach these next few months that I’m going to eloquently deliver to you, you’re wrong. I don’t have the slightest clue how to deal.

I guess I’m going to have to start feeding my resume steroids so it will be an Italian beefcake ready for a career come April. I guess I’m going to have a lot more inaudible phone calls where I cry to my boyfriend. I guess I’m going to have a lot more sleepovers with my best friend. I guess I’m going to eat a lot more Munchkins.

I’m going to disguise my mental breakdown as a series of jokes (thanks tumblr).