This school year marks the halfway point of my undergraduate career. In two more years, I’ll be out in the real world, either living in my mother’s basement or working for a company I feel passionate about (I’m hoping for the latter). For many students, the resounding indicator of our success and self-worth has been our grades. Ever since the checks and star pluses of elementary school and up to the A’s and D’s of university, grades let us know if we were smart or dumb.
It isn’t a surprise, then, that many students stress over their school work: labs, reports, personal statements, and the dreaded essay. These past two weeks have been crazy. Never in my life have I been more stressed, more busy, or more crazy. In light of these feelings, I recently wrote a poem that I think many people will be able to resonate with. It details the night in a life of your typical college student with a paper due the next morning. In fact, it’s called “A Night in the Life” and I hope you enjoy it.
“A Night in the Life” by Kent Tran
“IT’S BLOODY RAW!”
Gordon Ramsay tosses the plate
of bloody red meat into the trash.
Gordon Ramsay is right.
Sarah’s steak looks quite undone,
not quite unlike; oh god, my essay–
I start cleaning my desk
and clear off all the stuff.
Clorox wipes smell bad
but they do the trick.
I replace nothingness with:
laptop, papers, pen, prompt.
I scurry into the kitchen
and Mandy gives me a look.
It’s not my fault that
I get this hungry at night.
I make off with my Doritos.
Cool Ranch really is the best.
The Word doc is still blank.
I open up Google docs;
obviously that’ll make this easier.
Do you know what is easy?
Opening a new tab on Safari.
Maybe I’ll be inspired on Facebook.
Sent: Dude come over right now plz
Received: Your Shakespeare essay tho?
Sent: Yeah, but company makes me more creative
Sent: So are you coming?
Received: On my way ahaha
“Dude you know my mattress
was only ten dollars, right?”
“Wow seriously? That’s so cheap.”
“Yeah, I bought it from a frat dude.”
“Dude, that’s actually kind of gross.
Imagine how many STD’s are on it…”
I jump up, startled, and yell.
“DUDE. YOU NEED TO LEAVE.”
He looks up at my standing figure.
“You have literally no chill.”
I grab my friend by the collar
and throw him out the door.
“IT’S BLOODY FROZEN!”
Gordon Ramsay isn’t wrong.
Watching my paper write itself
Is like watching water turn to ice.
My eyes drift from empty page to window.
Wherefore art thou so bright, sun?