The Final Hours

The dust is beginning to settle. So many metaphors, so little time: I'm rounding the final bend, the end is in sight, my journey is almost over, my butt itches... they all mean the same thing.

I turned in my final paper of this term, which was also my final final. Finally finalized my final. Philosophy majors have two things going for them - 1) No stupid multiple choice finals requiring dozens of hours pouring over countless 3x5 note cards and 2) No need to memorize worthless information for the two seconds it will serve you on the final and then forgetting it forever (thank you, science). However, they also have two things working against them - 1) Nobody knows how awesome they are and 2) My juicy mind grapes don't impress the ladies.

Alas, we poor philosophy folk, like our counterparts in the English department, have large papers to turn in. For some professors, they make the final paper a culmination of work from the term, ending in a rigorous treatment of the subject matter (see also: my 10-page paper on the relation of freedom and oppression in Simone de Beauvoir). For other professors, they make us write some 5-page ass-kisser, the assignment being: write about how your life has changed because of my class which is so totally awesome when I teach it I cream my jeans just thinking about how incredibly talented and awesome I am. In the former case, it hurts because of the amount of secondary source material and overall brain power it takes to even begin to think about writing it. For the ass-kisser, it's just a matter of not wanting to because it feels forced. You know - you use the kind of complete sentences and phrases usually reserved for learning a second language: "The reason I liked this class was because it encouraged me to think harder. I also liked this class because...". Barf. I must note, however, that I haven't had very many of these types of papers to turn in. It usually only happens when a professor has all but checked out, getting on to their vacation being more important than grading papers. I doubt they even grade them. They're like, "Yeah. A, whatever".

The relief I feel right now cannot be summed up in a sentence. But you can see it all over my face, pouring from my nostrils and eye ducts. I have closed the chapter entitled The Term From Hell. A fan of histrionics, I *occasionally* exaggerate and *occasionally* make a big deal out of minutiae. However, this was truly the only term birthed from Satan himself and thankfully, it will be the only one. I've gone on enough to all of you in person about how class-free next term will be, so no need to beat a dead horse.

I feel as though I'm breathing again. It's strange how that metaphor really applies to school work. We're "buried" and by completing a huge final, we "resurface" and "breathe" again. Thanks to Dr. Mark Johnson, pretty much everything someone says now I pick out the metaphor, have prototype effects and image schemata activated, and can instantly map why that metaphor has so much meaning for us. That's right, I'm a regular weirdo. But if you want me to show you how compelling his work is, I'd be more than happy to discuss it with you. But not right now. I'm high on life and stuff.