I'm in some kind of strange blogging mood.
So it's over. This semester. I'm done with it. Classes are over. Finals are over. Work is over. I took my Spanish final at 1:30, and it was the easiest of my three finals. What's up? I picked up -- well, actually, Tessa picked up -- my paper from BarbCobb. I filled out my time card for this pay period. I am through. So where am I right now? Waterfield. I have problems. It's clear.
Things just don't feel final. Maybe it's because I'm not having to pack up my stuff and move out of a residential college. That could be it. And I don't even really have any books to sell back. That's another end-o'-the-semester rite of closure. Maybe I'll sell my advanced comp book back for good measure. It's likely that I have every story, poem, and play published in it in my remaning three million pounds of literature anthologies. It seems unwise to sell back an education textbook, but how many books on literacy can a person have? Okay, so I only have two. I better keep what I got. But by golly, I'm going to sell my Hirschberg back and get at least three cents for the sake of closure.
I'm starting to get excited about Spain. When people ask me if I'm excited -- it's usually meant as a rhetorical question, I believe -- I don't respond with affirmation quickly enough. I just worry too much about things. I know I'm going to have a great time, and I know everything will be okay. It's not like I don't want to go. I know I'd regret it if I didn't, but if someone told me I wouldn't have to go, I'd really consider it. But all that is just my weak emotions talking. Somewhere, in a place within me that will be excavated on May 30, I am thrilled. It excites to me think that I'll have the experience, that I'll probably grow dramatically because of it.
Alright. I've been in this library too long. It's time to go celebrate summer.