I write this in the midst of my struggle, and in what is truly my darkest hour. I'm not posting this to joke of some bright light in the distance. I'm not writing this to chafe you. I'm not even writing this because I want to. I'm writing this because I have to. The Miami Sharks had Tony D'Amato, the 1980 team had Herb, the hundreds of thousands of onlookers at the reflection pool had Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. You my friends, you have Uncle Chafe.
Finals week is truly the definition of grind. Finals suck. For those of you out there who have five in a row, or four days straight with two on the last day, I truly weep for you. Your pain is my pain. Alas, there is no light without darkness, there is no day without night, no fresh without chafe. Lesbianis, our lives are sick (as in good). They ask so little of us for an entire semester. Write this paper, take this test, do this homework, come to a couple of classes. We do virtually nothing on a week-by-week basis. Then they start pumping 102 in the bottom of the 9th just to make it seem like we haven't been complete degenerates all year (which we have been). We know it's coming, but we don't actually think it's ever actually going to arrive.
And here we are. In the shit.
I'm here to tell you that the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel is real. It isn't a mirage, it's not your mind playing tricks. That light is as real as LT's rape conviction. If Dufresne can get through 500 yards of feces on his way to freedom, you can get through Finite Math, you can get through Philosophy of the Person, and hell, you just might be able to get through your cumulative Not So Basic Finance final that is a sure-to-be public ass whooping. But when it's over, when you've left it all on the field (or in Fulton), when you get out of that last final... That's something they can't touch, that they'll never be able to touch. That's something that they can't take away from us. God bless America, and God bless Walsh Hall. Now go forth and enjoy thy grind.