As a tribute to a summer heaving its final breaths, I've blasted Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends" on an infinite loop (much to the chagrin of my parents). But even the lilting loll of Billie Joe Armstrong does precious little to console me - the school years spells out, in no uncertain terms, the end of my capering and cavorting, the end of azure beaches and sun-kissed summer adventures.
It's the end of an era - and the advent of one, too. Cue in the speckled scan-trons, groggy morning bus rides, and homework finished begrudgingly into the wee hours of the night. Even as I write this blog, a more responsible inner voice admonishes me, telling me my time is better spent wrestling math problems or dotting the "i's" on a research paper.
I wish I could sprinkle stardust on all my assignments and have my Pinnacle effortlessly agleam with A's. Each year seems to have a recurring theme from which I can glean something new - last year, as a freshman, I dealt with inhibitions of high school, the anonymity I felt in its hallowed hallways. Now, sophomore year has presented me with an arithmetic lesson: seven classes' worth of homework by 180 days of school divided by six hours of sleep per day minus the square root of negative infinity plus the amount of hairs I've just pulled out of my head.
Oh, and don't forget to multiply that exponentially. That's junior year, I'm told. And that's just beyond the horizon.
Admittedly, I can't pretend to hate school for a second. I'm engaged in my classes, buoyed by the fact a free public education provides such an opportunity for intellectual galvanization. I'm determined to make the most of the 4,860,600 seconds of school wedged between me and my summer vacation.
But who's counting?