1992: My mom sat downstairs, listening to Rush Limbaugh, doing jigsaw puzzles. I sat upstairs, reading Laura Ingalls Wilder books for fun after a snack of chocolate pudding.

2003: My mom sat downstairs, listening to Rush Limbaugh, doing jigsaw puzzles. I sat upstairs, reading Kate Chopin's The Awakening for school and snacking on chocolate pudding.

2009: My mom sits downstairs, listening to Rush Limbaugh, doing jigsaw puzzles. I sit upstairs, reading Kate Chopin's short stories for school and snacking on chocolate pudding, wondering how so little has changed since first grade.

Ten bucks to the first person who comes over and smacks the snot out of my head and/or gives me drugs.

Cramming an entire telecourse into one week is stupid. Taking five tests in two days is also stupid. Ignoring a faint sore throat and avoiding sleep to study for hours on end is a good way to possibly pass and definitely get sick.

I sit here with a tissue shoved in each nostril, a glass of chocolate milk before me (picture was taken last night, when I was rockin' the tea thing), and a tiny white pill in the bottom of my tummy. I hear the pill will stop the sniffles and the headache, and oh, that is music to my clogged ears.

Soon and very soon, I hope to fall asleep and never go to class again. Never go to work again. Never leave bed again. I will acquire some hired help and spend the rest of my days alternating between watching Lord of the Rings, drinking beverages through swirly straws, feasting upon pizza and chocolate and ice cream (and Oreos!), and dreaming my life away. I'm sure there's a way to get the internet to fund that for me, right? Right. Sweet. More pillows, Nigel.