Final Bitches

Finals. Not only finals but finals in worthless classes. Business calculus, 'nuff said. The letter "B" sends a shiver down my spine unless it is finished correctly with "-itch" at the end. Because we all know that my failure to learn (or be taught) derivatives correctly will end up some disaster of epic proportions. Planets will fall out of the sky, cats and dogs having babies, Michael Jackson will go back to being black, all sorts of crazy shit. My contribution to mathematics that I would have had later on in life will suffer, which could have one day calculated some sort of equation for world peace or the cure for bicyclists. The test is cumulative? Right, because I didn't understand it on the first test, you're gunna spank me cause I don't know it this time again. You do know that I have four other finals and you're still going to do this to me? But of course you already knew that. But at a private Christian school such as Pepperdine, its soooo much more than that. Its not only that I don't understand Business Calculus, in reality the devil has sucked my soul through my butt. "B-?!" Next thing you know they'll douse me with holy water and be compelling my soul by the power of Christ. And thats another thing...I actually get graded on my drawings of Jesus and other "reflections on Christ". I'm not bitching about that though, cause this bitch can draw a mean middle aged Jesus and I Aced that shit. Finals encourage the use of over the counter crack a.k.a. adderall, it can also induce insomnia and panic attacks. As well as a serious case of acne and weight gain for those who aren't cracked out and turn to a tub of Ben and Jerry's for comfort (fatties). I have bed sores from sitting in a cubicle, I kid you not. Oh and since when was the word "library", code word for loud-annoying-bitches? Take you're sewing circle elsewhere! I'm here to learn Calculus and enjoy it! It also forces semi-sane people like myself to go off the deep end, living solely off of gallons of iced coffee, packs of cigarettes and ONE jar of extra crunchy peanut butter for a week. I dare you to go up to someone who works for a "shmuisness" and inquire, "Do you know what the partial second derivative of 'x' is in respect to..." and before you can finish that sentence, the mofo will hit you with a fuckin' upper cut and a kick in the crotch. Then he'll begin to seize on the ground and as you go to help him off the ground, he then darts away screaming and ripping off all of his clothes. It's like they say about acid, after you take it you store all that crazy shit until you are reminded of it years later. I think my flashbacks will fall in place nicely sometime near my imminent middle aged crisis.