Post-Semester Stress Disorder

Finishing school is like finishing a war. The guns are silent, the gore is dried, and your bed feels safe at last. Exhalation is natural and a smile is no longer forced. The steel muzzles cool, and the smoke clears. All is quiet on the wide fields of slaughter, and flowers begin again to dot the trench-scarred landscape.

But try as you might, there can be no return to the life that was before. A nerve deep inside your soul has been touched, and your one-innocent heart has been jarred. You thank God for home, for your loving family and familiar routine, but you find that you cannot enjoy them as you once did.

No, something has changed. You can feel it when, having stayed up by habit until two-thirty in the morning, you stare bleary-eyed at random websites as if they were vital research for an overdue paper that you had to finish. You can feel it when, five hours later, you jolt out of bed perspiring as if there were no time to dress before classes began. You can feel it when you wriggle your weightless fingers and unclasp your empty hands as you carpool to work, thinking you ought to have a book with you. You can feel it when you can make evening plans and not worry about homework deadlines or study groups.

The caffeine addiction dies hard. You cannot bear to bid adieu to your morning coffee, nor can you kiss your desert coffee goodbye. Your hands even itch at times to make that midnight cram-session pot. Mountain Dew may be a good place to start cutting back. They don't, after all, have it at In N' Out, and there's no longer any need for an energy boost in that calculus class. Red Bull is, naturally, off limits.

Slowly, the reality sinks in. You don't have to mute your laptop to keep the Tetris music from reaching your professor's ears. You don't have to sit up straight or act respectable; you don't have to zone out. When someone asks you a question, you don't have to scramble into the dark and misty caverns of your memory in search of potent ingredients for a plausible answer-concoction. The only alchemy in your life is in your plans to revive a hibernating relationship.

In time, the harsh regimen of the semester begins to loosen. There is no one to bark out orders, no one to set deadlines, and no one to impress. You can leave your hair ungelled and trip over your shoelaces. You can guzzle coke on the couch in a stuffy room whose murky dimness is pierced only by the flickering light of a television screen. The only blot on your perfect liberty is a faint but recurring recollection of the horrors you conquered.

Buck up, soldier. Don't let the bad memories phase you. Your troubles are in the past, so keep them there. If steel and fire couldn't hurt you, there's no reason to be afraid of ghosts. Relax and take it easy now, because in just a few months, you're scheduled for another tour.

I Am Not A Reader

We had absolutely nothing to post today. We were about to give up and run away to sea in despair (or do something more drastic like color our hair) when this friendly email from Trevor happened by. We decided to exploit an obscure clause of our privacy statement which lets us post email correspondence. We assume that, because this post involves a ninja, it will be a smashing success.

Despite my frequent visitations to your blog, and in spite of the fact that 'Coke Glorious Coke' and 'Ima Victim' repeatedly cycle around my head, I am not an addict of your site. Really. In spite of the sudden urge to write this e-mail, in spite of daily thoughts of Life Tips and that idiotic, hilarious disclaimer... I am not a regular reader.

I want to be. I truly do. But, I am sorry to report that I missed one day of reading.

As every stereotypical story begins, I was walking home from work one day. Suddenly the sky went dark, and a single black cloud floated down and hovered over my head. There were evil dancing rats inside, probably guys from rFCN. They shot me with lightning and coated me with honey and powdered sugar (which actually tastes good). I was left to die on the sidewalk.

I was picked up by a passing used car salesman who mistook me for a donut. After he very unpleasantly discovered my true identity, however, he threw me out of the window. I rolled into a pet store where I was attacked by mutant chimpanzees with rifles and slingshots. The powdered sugar softened the blows, however.

After washing myself off in the fish tank, I decided to head home. I disregarded the children who taunted me and called me names like 'Sticky', 'Stupid', and others that I shall not repeat. I had only one goal -- to go home and read Funny Class Notes, the only thing that could cheer me up.

As I walked through the door, I let out a sigh. But not of relief. For a ninja midget had invaded my home and made off with all the pretzels, and he was just making good his escape as I walked through the door. He karate chopped me, and I crumpled to the ground. He fled through the doorway, with a few kicks for good measure.

I dragged myself upstairs, bleeding, resolved to click on 'Favorites' and to open your site. I hauled myself onto the office chair, which broke. From the ground I reached for my mouse, which cracked in my hand. I used keyboard shortcuts to navigate to Favorites, then held my pointer finger up to push the Enter key...

...And the power went out.

I fainted from exhaustion and disappointment. It all went black for awhile. And when I woke up, it was 11:58 PM. The power was back on! I rebooted my computer at 11:59, opened my web browser, and clicked on Funny Class Notes!!!

But the clock changed to 12:00, and I was a loser. I had failed my aspirations to become a regular reader. I am now to remain unrecognized, my lifelong dream unfulfilled. Why me? Oh, cruel fate! You have blasted the hopes of an aspiring young man!

WHAT WILL I DO!?!?!?!?!?

Sincerely,

-Trevor

Sorry, Trevor. We can't help you. You failed, man. You. Failed.

Coke, Glorious Coke

To be sung to the tune of Food, Glorious Food, from Oliver Twist.

Is it worth the waiting for?
If we live 'til eighty four
All we ever get is wa...ter!
Ev'ry day an empty fridge --
Will they change our beverage?
Still we get the same old wa...ter!
There is not a can, not a bottle can we find,
Can we beg, can we borrow, or cadge,
But there's nothing to stop us from getting a thrill
When we all close our eyes and imag...ine

Coke, glorious Coke!
Brown sugar and caffeine!
Ready to provoke --
Sudden uncontrolled laughing!
I'll have it with any meal!
Canned, bottled or poured!
Beg, borrow, buy, or steal --
Drink-it-up!

Coke, glorious Coke!
We're anxious to drink it.
Three liters a day --
Our favourite diet!

Just picture an eighteen pack --
Buying till we're broke!
Oh, Coke,
Wonderful Coke,
Marvellous Coke,
Glorious Coke.

Coke, glorious Coke!
What is there more handsome?
Gulped, swallowed or choked --
Still worth a king's ransom.
What is it we dream about?
What brings on a sigh?
Foaming goodness, piled about
Six cans high!

Coke, glorious coke!
In the back of the menu.
Just open your mouth
For the straw and then you
Work up a new appetite.
Helped me when I woke --
The Coke,
Once again, Coke
Fabulous Coke,
Glorious Coke.

Coke, glorious Coke!
Don't care what it looks like --
Flat!
Too foamy!
Smoked!
Don't care what the cup's like.
Just thinking of passing out --
Our senses go reeling
One moment of knowing that
Coked-up feeling!

Coke, glorious Coke!
What wouldn't we give for
One extra soak --
That's all that we live for
Why should we be fated to
Do nothing but joke
About Coke,
Magical Coke,
Wonderful Coke,
Marvellous Coke,
Fabulous Coke,

Beautiful Coke ...

Glorious Coke!

Confessions of a Coke Addict

600 ounces of coke on the wall, 600 ounces of coke ...

I recently went to a forensic tournament at which I was not competing and decided to try pursuing nutrition the way I had always wanted - the way my various competitive and snotty partners had prevented me from treating myself in the past. This philosophy of nutrition can be summed up in a single word: Coke. What follows is the day-by-day log of the resulting experiment.

DAY ONE: LIFE IS GOOD

Fruit, 1 bowl
Mini Croissant, 2
Sugar-free Kiwi-Strawberry juice, 2 glasses
Coca-Cola Classic, 12 cans

Coke wakes me up and keeps me there. I feel energy all over. My steps are springy. I have a smile on my face and a twinkle in my eye. My hair flounces around jauntily. I am alert and competent. My tongue shows slight signs of swelling. I have no appetite. I must break often to use the restroom. I express myself well and grasp complex challenges easily. I must have another coke at least every one and a half hours or my brain will settle into a dull buzz. I lie awake in bed until three, pondering deep philisophical and moral questions.


DAY TWO: RED BULL FOR BREAKFAST

Fruit, 2 forkfuls
Mini Croissant, 1
Banana, 1
Sugar-free Kiwi-Strawberry juice, 1 glass
Red Bull, 1 Can
Coca-Cola Classic, 15 cans

A friend gave me a can of Red Bull late the first day. I drink it early on the second and wash it down with two cokes. I feel a warm, dry presence around myself, as if I have been rolled in salt. My tongue is badly swollen. I can no longer use my peripheral vision. It is difficult to begin moving after remaining still for several minutes. It is also difficult to remain still for several minutes. I go for three hours without coke; a racking headache ensues followed by nausea and gas. I knock back 2 more cans and the sensations pass. My bladder has gone on strike. Heartburn comes to stay. Various concerned mothers seek to physically tear the coke out of my hands. They fail miserably. Several out-of-state visitors are damaged.


DAY THREE: THE PAIN, THE PAIN!

Coca-Cola Classic, 21 cans

Waking up is a violent and painful act. Aligning my steps in a straight line proves challenging. My eyes are red, my lips are brown, and my tongue is white. Cramps are common. Someone has driven an iron rod between my temples. I can feel the blood pumping through my stomach. I get into a fight with a drunk bearded guy and lose. My love life makes significant advances, none of them in the right direction. I stutter badly. My active vocabulary is reduced to several hundred words, most of them several syllables long and difficult to pronounce. I am incurably happy. I can think in a clear and lucid fashion and solve some of the most difficult problems about the nature of mankind and the universe. Unfortunately, my short-term memory is reduced to forty seconds. I forget my brilliant thoughts before I can write them down. My intestines have been tied into a tight knot. My ears are ringing. A law enforcement official doesn't believe I'm holding the coke for a friend. I am forced to outrun him. I drink toasts to anything and everything. I must have a sip once every ten minutes at the least or the numbness will begin to fade. My hand is completely still when at rest, but jerks about wildly when I try to write something. I catch myself singing songs I have never heard before. I bump into things often. A two-year old gets a sugar high by walking past me in the street.


DAY FOUR: COLD TURKEY

Sugar-free Kiwi-Strawberry juice, 2 glasses
Grande Mocha-Lite Frapaccino, 1
Sugar-free gum, 1 stick (not swallowed)

My ride leaves the hotel at ten. My eyes have been open for more than twenty-four hours straight. My tongue has the consistency of sandpaper and sticks to the roof of my mouth like velcro. I have a debilitating headache. My basic motor skills are gone and my balance is shot. I get a well-deserved slap in the face from a hotel maid. My feet are heavy. I trip often. Sunlight blinds me. People have to shout to be heard over the ringing in my ears. My muscles clench and unclench regardless of what my brain tells it. My brain is of limited use right now, anyway. My bladder uncramps very abruptly just north of Los Angeles and we do an abrupt emergency pull over onto the shoulder. I hold one coke left from the tournament in my left hand. It has no charm over me. Just at sundown, my lids close and I cannot open them again. I remain wide awake. I embaress myself and those around me at a fancy restaurant while stabbing things with silverware completely blind. I stab my right thumb as well and can feel nothing even after others tell me. Upon arriving home, I am guided to bed and lie there, singing lustily. My room mate disables me and I sleep for thirteen hours straight.


CONCLUSIONS

In some strange way, I am proud of my discipline and physiological capacity. I can knock back Coke at a rate which would shame anyone, even Jessica, who once beat me in a Coke drinking contest (I was humiliated). Nonetheless, I will switch to decaf, paint my walls pink, and join a yoga class.


FINAL NOTE

Adrienne, if you're reading this, I'm really sorry about what I said. It was immature and senseless. I was a jerk. I was drunk. I didn't know what I was saying. You're a beautiful person and you deserve better than that shotgun-toting redneck. I'm really really sorry, and I beg your forgiveness, and I ask you to give me just one more chance.