The joy

It's here. You can smell it. It's the stench of unwashed 19-year-olds who haven't seen light for days. It's the sound of compter keys whirring away until 5 in the morning. It's the scent coffee being piped into veins through an IV. It's the taste of chips and cookies and cereal, and chocolate and other foods that come from the C-Store. It's tendonitis in the wrist, sleep lines from a text book, dirty laundry, dishes in the sink, and snooze buttons continually being pushed. It is not an early morning run, it is not 3-egg omelet with cut up veggies and meat. It is not a friend that just dropped by. No. This is finals. Bear down, my friends. This is finals.