If you’re anything like me, you’ve waited until the last 72 hours to cram for this beast of a cavity search on Saturday (the idea that you couldn’t master the hordes of information at the last minute were, frankly, a blow to your ego). Now, with T minus three days, there’s a legitimate concern that not only will this weekend’s administers be doing this without lube, but that there’s going to somehow be a tire iron involved. Your ability to form coherent sentences has been greatly compromised, and when people talk to you about dinner plans you wonder if they know you’re not listening to a thing they’ve said, but rather of stabbing a homeless person for not being able to remember how to calculate the portfolio variance with probabilities.
Clearly, I feel your pain. Because there’s comfort in numbers, I’m asking (begging) you to use this as a platform for venting. Commiseration and all that jazz. We’re all miserable, let’s be miserable together.
And come Saturday, I wish you luck; if we should happen run into each other at the bar afterward, don’t worry about having puked on yourself. It’s all part of the game.