Every time I get to the end of a semester, I think I can’t possibly want a semester to be over more than I do right now. And yet, a few months later, I’m doing the same thing, wanting it to be over more than ever.
This time, I haven’t even gotten to finals. I still have at least three more weeks, not including the extra time I have for a psychology exam.
I’m quite sick of school.
And I’m very tired of work. I mean, I’m glad I have a job. I chant it silently everyday when I drag myself in at five in the morning and have to face the same paranoid, obsessive-compulsive, ungrateful jerks who come in the moment I unlock the door. The ones who don’t so much as drop a nickel in the tip jar or thank me when, bleary-eyed, I manage to make their americano or latte or coffee to their specifications without a word being spoken: with six cubes of ice, a little hot water, four Splendas, a little extra foam, and go ahead and put some cream in the bottom first because that’s the way they like it.
I’m feeling gross, fat, uncomfortable, and irritable. My skin is in bad shape, my pants don’t fit, my shirts ride up, my bras are too small. When I don’t feel hungry, I feel nauseated. Or vice versa. When I make drinks I can see my arm jiggle.
Two more weeks and I’ll be out of the first trimester. I can only hope that I actually enter the “honeymoon” phase of the pregnancy where I’m, like, super-horny and my skin glows and I’ve got tons of energy. As it stands, I can barely function on less than 10 hours of sleep a day.