Finals, oh finals. We all know you come twice a year. You come with coffee, Adderall, stress, tears and a lot of booze. There is no love-hate relationship here, it's strictly hate.
Don't be offended, you knew this was coming. If I had a dollar for every time there was an Instagram post about how someone felt during finals, or where they would rather be than studying for finals, I would actually be a millionaire.
You drive me to drink. Not one glass of wine, but two bottles.
You bring out more tears in me than when McDreamy died in "Grey's Anatomy."
You make my mom think I have died at college because I won't return her phone calls.
You cause the lines at Starbucks to be endless when the world knows I will just die without my venti coffee.
You make boys think I own nothing but yoga pants and sweatshirts.
No matter how much effort I put into a final, I fail.
You make me go throughout my day looking, feeling and talking like a zombie.
You make be binge on a bag of chips and then starve myself the rest of the day.
At least you gave me the gift of Reading Day Eve. Where the bars are filled and the memories are as black as your soul.
Finals, I hate you. You're like the bad ex I keep going back to. I try to avoid you, but it's inevitable. I'll see you in the spring, pal.
