By Alexandrea Nedelcu
The lights are dim. There is a gold banner on the right wall that reads “HAPPY WEEK 8!” I am there, and so are my friends. We gather in a three-person circle (which is really a triangle, but whatever). We join hands and look at each other in the eyes. We begin to cry week-eight tears.
There are stress breakouts lining our otherwise flawless porcelain faces. We celebrate these with self pity. We drink glasses of stale tap water. You know, the ones that have been sitting on our bedside tables since week six. We gulp it down like thirsty travelers in the desert that is the academic quarter.
We begin chanting about professors assigning major assignments three weeks before the end of the quarter. Or about the job market. Or how some individuals play with gender roles like they’re frisbees. Alanis Morissette is playing somewhere in the background, and it sort of sounds like the noise is coming from the heater under my window, but I am too engaged in this chanting triangle to even turn it up.
A bell tolls somewhere from the hills, and a voice announces, “Happy week eight. May the odds be ever in your favor.”