Once upon a time (last week) I missed my final.  I woke up thirty minutes past the start of my Communications final and went through a shit ton of death-defying maneuvers to get to campus within the allotted two hours for the test.  I made it there alive, took my final, and cried tears of joy as I walked back to my car.

Well, all of the near-death experiences that occurred as a result of these shenanigans proved useless today when  I opened up my email inbox.

There, awaited a letter from my Comm professor.  Some douchebag douchersons from Doucheville were caught in a mass cheating scam.

He voided the final.

I could have just continued sleeping in.

Damn it, damn it all.

A few weeks ago, a friend asked me if I had ever witnessed a poor, sprinting sap, Scantron in hand, clearly late for some life-defining test, since I’ve started at SDSU.  I shook my head from side to side, feeling sympathetic for the unfortunate fools put in that position.  Then he told me that earlier that week, he had been one of those unfortunate fools.  I laughed derisively, mocking him for being idiotic enough to oversleep on an important test date.

Yeah… I’m not laughing anymore.

Yesterday, I woke up to an 8:31AM text from an acquaintance I had made in my Communications 103 class that simply read, “Where the hell are you for the final?????”  I scrolled down and found a few more from several different classmates, all inquiring the same thing.

It was 8:31 in the morning and I was thirty minutes late for my 8AM Communications final and twenty-five minutes away from campus.

I’m going to skip the dirty deetz (which include not getting dressed, tripping on the way out of the house, driving on the wrong side of the road to avoid a snail-speed minivan, essentially breaking every minor driving law in existence, etc.) and hit the fast forward button for ya’ll: I got to campus in about fifteen minutes, a near impossible feat for the distance I drove and the inevitable morning traffic that comes with the route I have to take to get to school.

When I got to the parking lot, I darted out of my car and ran away, stopped, ran back to lock it, ran towards the stairs, and hopped up two flights of said stairs.  I ran across the street and glared at the guy at the stop sign who rolled his way through and nearly turned my brisk morning jog to my Comm final the final thing I would do, period.  I ran by Sean, my darling new friend who was nice enough to buy me a Scantron after he finished his test and wait for me on a bench near the parking structure.  I snatched the Scantron, screamed out my undying love and gratitude for him (and the other ten or so people standing by), and continued down the remaining half-mile to the classroom.

When I reached the bridge connecting me to the main part of campus, I ran into Tory, another fellow Comm-mate, who bellowed, “Jamie!  People were trying to call you!” as I blurred by in what I slept in: my satin nightie-top and — appropriately enough — running shorts.  I nodded and smiled in acknowledgment and forged ahead.

Halfway through the bridge, I stopped, yelled, “Fuck! I’m so outta shape!” to passersby and slowed my roll.  When I finally fell into the elevator, waiting for it to take me four stories up, my neighboring elevator companion stared at me for — I’m assuming — my flushed face and the heavy breathing.  “I missed my final,” I told the 50-something-year-old woman.  She let out an understanding sigh and smile and apologized for having to have the elevator stop on the third floor.

When I finally reached the fourth floor, I dashed into my classroom and proclaimed to my T.A. and an empty classroom in relief, “I’m here!”  She couldn’t stop laughing.

I wiped the sweat off my brow and took my final.  It wasn’t until I was walking back to my car that I thought to check the time.

9:28AM.

I had another thirty-two minutes to spare.

I could have avoided the sprinting, I could have driven legally, I could have checked my answers.  But no, my rushed start caused me to rush my ending.

At least I know I got something out of this: an unspoken kinship with every other college student who has been in my situation.  I feel ya, every Scantron hugging, sweating, sprinting, tardy test-taker who has been through this stressful situation.  And the next time I spot one of us, I will sympathize with you and smile reassuringly…

because that shit, sucked.

About a month ago, I confessed my undying love to my best friend and shortly after, wrote a blog about it.  Being who I am, posting a public blog was the only way for me to attempt to grasp some closure.

Foolishly enough, I made some thoughts too public.  I made the mistake of referring to him as “almost blindingly attractive,” and the asshole WILL NOT LET IT DIE.

Almost every single time I’ve seen him since, he’s made some witty remark about being just so “blindingly attractive.”  When I least expect it, he figures out some way to slip it into casual conversation.

“Oh, Jamie, don’t look at me too hard, I’ll blind you”-type crap.

I’m fed up with it.

For anyone who has or will read that post, I’ll have you know… ‘twas a typo.

He’s not “blindingly attractive.” 

He’s only attractive to the blind.

Full disclosure: During one of his “I’m blindingly attractive” mockery spells, he actually came up with that last line as a side comment, after which, I threatened to use as a blogging weapon to cease the taunting.  He’s been teased quite a few times since I initially posted this blog, so I’ve returned to edit and give him credit.  Let’s be honest, he just beat me to the punch because given a little more time, I would have came up with it on my own.  That boy takes everything from me; first my heart, later my dignity, and now, my clever zingers.