March 26, 1999.

I have a history of freaking out around exam times. Ask anybody. It started in highschool, back in the day when I thought my grade 11 math mark would count for anything. I'd get all tense & angry, my friends would avoid me, exams would end, and life would return to normal. This escalated as I got closer to the end of highschool and closer to marks that actually meant something to my future. I made things a lot worse for myself in my last semester, though - at this point I wanted to get a psychology degree, which required a senior biology credit (I'm translating into American for all of you not familiar with OAC's), and I had no room for it in my schedule. So I went to night school on top of a full course load that included senior chemistry, senior literary studies and beginning guitar. I also juggled a full social schedule (i.e. getting hopelessly drunk twice a weekend) and a very involving relationship with Alexi.

The night I fell apart, I was on the phone to Alexi. One minute I was morosely talking about my troubles, the next I burst into hysterical tears - convinced that I would fail Calculus and be denied admission to every self-respecting university. Of course I didn't fail Calculus (although it was my lowest mark, fuck you very much Sir Isaac Newton), and here I am about to finish a Specialist B.A. in my first choice of university with an excellent chance of getting into the teacher's college of my choice.

But every year, the tension cranks up. In residence, I was barely noticeable over the rest of the insanity, but here I have to act like a normal human being as my roommate is under none of my pressures. Besides that, I don't really like myself when I lose control during crunch time. So this year I'm focussing on quality of time, rather than a mechanical completion of tasks. In 3 weeks, it won't matter if my essay was a couple days late (especially if the penalty is only 2%), and I could be having a good time with the Boy without sacrificing any of my academic goals.

It's a thin line to walk, and I've watched many a friend lose their balance at a crucial point. I've watched people spend entire weeks worth of nights playing computer games instead of writing papers. I've watched people drop out of credits mere days before the end, or simply not show up to the exam at all. I've watched myself hand in papers consistently, rarely missing the due date. I've watched myself handle 6 credits and a part-time job. I've watched myself get this far, and now I think it's time to let up a bit on myself. I have only myself to blame if I can't do something on time, so let's accept that and move on. Besides, it makes me a much better girlfriend - instead of querulously begging the Boy to understand through prolonged periods of nastiness, I refuse to get that worked up.

I'm sooo proud of myself, too.

And it is in that spirit that I present the events of last night, titled "A Frankenstein Monster of an Essay Writing Night In Canada"

(yes, I meant that awkwardness)

We open our scene around 4 p.m. The place is Shoppers Drugmart. Enter The Boy, who comments on the obvious.

"You have an essay to write. I should go home."

"Of course not," I reply. "Hey, can I have one of those Mister Munchy chocolate bunnies? I haven't had one of those since I was a kid."

Scene 2, 7 p.m.

We get off the couch after two episodes of the Simpsons and one of Frasier to heat up some pre-prepared food. "Maybe I should start that essay," I muse. "After all, it is due at ten p.m. tomorrow. Ah, well. It's only 2% a day."

Scene 3, 8 p.m.

The Boy installs the adventure CD ROM he bought at the drug store. "Just kick me off when you need the computer."
"Okaay." And I wander into the living room to kill time. (Yes, with zero work done, I was killing time at 8 p.m.)

Scene 4, 9 p.m.

I have a ten-second breakdown. Tears dot my shirt and I despair of ever finishing anything. "I'm such a fuckup" I wail quietly. Then I pull myself together, start eating Mr. Munchy & write an outline.

Scene 5, 10 p.m.

I compassionately kick the Boy off the computer, so that I can stare at the screen, type madly, swill coke and eat chocolate. "Wow, I'm so fucking smart," I mutter from time to time, as brilliant insights about Frankenstein come one after another.

Scene 6, 11 p.m.

The Boy goes out for donuts, after asking if he could play his game soon. I smile. I also refuse donuts, having formed an intense love of Mr. Munchy. I think he actually raised my I.Q. The Boy returns with a Kinder egg, and we spend several minutes playing with the plastic mouse and his little plastic pumpkin house.

Scene 7, 12:30

It's my teddy bear's bedtime; the Boy, tired of waiting to use his CD ROM accompanies Lilith to bed (that's my bear). I continue to mutter & swill & munch.

Scene 8, 1:45 a.m.

2500 words already? Mr. Munchy is put out of his lingering misery and I marvel at my energy. Why don't I do all my work at 2 a.m.? I begin to half-heartedly proofread.

Scene 9, 2 a.m.

Bedtime! I am too wired to sleep. I can't stop wiggling around. The Boy snarls at me for waking him up, then immediately apologizes.

Scene 10, 8:30 a.m.

My hyper energy deserts me. I need a shower, but it's still sleepy time. But my course calendar says that it is also class time. I have to do what now?

It was like a distillation of every essay night, only I ended up with an essay at the end of it. Well, it probably could be mistaken for an essay at twenty feet. It smells like an essay. It's shaped like an essay. I only hope that this kind of camouflaging will work with my professor.

And I still need a shower.

The moving continues in the Grotto. In case you joined the program late, know that I have to move into a new apartment for the month of April. My dad has worked out a cunning plan involving free cube vans, the loophole being that we can only use them on weekends, and the first is on a Thursday. To get around this, most of my stuff (all the good parts, at least) including my furniture is going home tomorrow. I shall be left with a sleeping bag, a few clothes, some essential books, toiletries, food, a computer, pillows and an alarm clock. This means that I am packing tonight.

The only problem being my roommate. As the Boy has so sagely remarked, she is just able to take care of herself, with no energy left for taking care of anything else...and she can't even take care of herself that well. Today she started calling around for moving vans. Unsurprisingly, with 4 days to go in the month, there weren't a lot of companies left to be booked. She ended up with a moving date of 4 p.m. on the first. Then she went to work, mere hours before the guys moving in here called.

"We need to be in there by 8 a.m. on the first."

All I could do was promise to make my roommate get in touch with them. I'll be out of there by the 31st, assuming I can get the keys (I don't have the number of our new landlords, and my roommate has yet to figure out when we can get access). Really, though. This is an incredible mess waiting to happen, and I'm just glad that my ass is covered, selfish as that is.

I suppose I consider it kharmic repayment for making me move for one month, right in the middle of finals and last essays. I can't tell you how pissed I am about that, but as my mom's friend Patty once said, "sometimes, Amoret, you just have to swallow."

And yes, she meant what you think she meant.