I’m finally done all my exams. There are more than four months of summer vacation between me and next semester. It seems strange that all of a sudden, the material that used to seem so critically important- the stuff that I’ve been cramming into my head for the past 12 weeks- doesn’t matter anymore.
Since the first week of January, my day-to-day existence has revolved around my textbooks. And now, after weeks of procrastination, followed by a couple days of frantic “I-can’t-believe-I-fell-nine-chapters-behind-since-the-midterm” studying, it’s all over.
The day before my microbiology exam, with three more chapters to read and several weeks of lectures to memorize, I would have preferred trying to circumcise a T-Rex with a plastic spoon instead of writing that exam. The very next day, those three chapters are suddenly irrelevant and I’m selling my textbook on AbeBooks.
Sure, some of the courses I’m taking next semester will build on what I learned in anatomy and physiology. But words like “photophosphorylation” and “polymorphonuclear leukocyte” can be mentally purged forever, joining the ranks of all my other repressed memories.
Like that time in grade nine when I gave a girl a Valentine’s Day card, and then she ceased to acknowledge my existence.