You wake up for your first class and spend the entirety of it scrolling through Twitter on your laptop while keeping an ear out for the teacher to say your name for when you need to give the three pieces of information that starts every semester. When class is over, you head back to bed for a little rest and recuperation before your afternoon class, in which you’ll do the exact same fucking thing. Unsurprisingly, you’ll do the same thing in every class this week, which is why your evening plans call for less than studious activities.
New classes to go to, but the same basic shit. At this point, you’re just paying attention to which classes you’re actually going to have to try in and which ones will be an easy A so long as you send the professor an email at the end of the semester thanking them for their hard work through such a “turbulent spring” and tell them what an impact that they made on you in the brief time you had them as an instructor.
After struggling to get through your classes for the day, you decide that since absolutely nothing is happening in any of them you can cut yourself a break and start drinking around 6:30pm. By 10:30, you’re buying drinks for girls at the bar who are fully taking advantage of the fact that you’ve made it way too obvious that you want to see them naked. Going home solo when you thought you were, “really vibing with that chick,” leads to a somewhat depressing rant to the roommate who’s trying to put you to bed in which you repeat angrily, “people just don’t fucking get me.”
It’s the first time of the semester that you consider skipping a class, but after violently throwing up from overdoing it the night before, you have enough energy to get through it before you can nap and go back out again that night. You purposefully scheduled no classes on Fridays so that you’d feel like less of a complete degenerate when every single Thursday ends with you being asked politely by your friends to mix in a water. But even though you have nothing to worry about the next day, you try to take it a little lighter because of how you ended up the night before.
You wake up Friday afternoon at one with three new Snapchats (only one of them being a girl), a bone chilling hangover, no recollection of the night before, and several texts from your roommates asking if you made it home okay. You manage to plug your phone in, take some Advil, and chug a water before whatever you had to drink the night before comes spewing out of you in the same liquid form it went in. You remember that you do have to submit an assignment at some point before midnight, so you set an alarm for 7pm and go back to bed. When you wake up, you realize that the assignment isn’t due until Sunday night and celebrate with several drinks that end in you texting three different girls that you’re in love with them while proclaiming that “it’s all a numbers game.”
Most of Saturday is spent watching mindless YouTube videos that take your mind off of the many fuckups you’ve had in the past few days until you come up with a concrete plan for how you’ll keep yourself in check when the night arrives. That plan goes out the window when you get a text from one of the girls that you professed your love for telling you to come over. Filled with a combination of excitement and plastic bottle vodka, you head over and seal the deal. It’s the first time in months you’ve been able to pull anything like that off, but you tell everyone that you’re not surprised because, like you said, “it’s all a numbers game.”
You get back to celebration from your roommates on your most recent sexual conquest and then bang out some homework until you get a text from that girl letting you know that she’s riddled with Omicron and thinks you should go get a test. Fuck.