Today I turned in my thesis.
I picked a cumulative 130 pages out of my 450 page novel (the latter pages of which are still ridiculously rough), polished them up, rewrote them a kagibbety times. and turned them in this morning. It felt good, walking across campus with that stack of paper. The weight was real and satisfying. I had completed that. This…was mine.
About halfway to my philosophy class I ran across a sophomore from Public Speaking. He surveyed my hefty pack of papers.
Sophomore: What’s that?
Me: Oh this? Nothing. Just MY THESIS.
Sophomore: HOLY SHIT.
Me: I KNOW. I mean, there are two copies here. So this is isn’t all one, but STILL. THIS IS ENORMOUS.
Sophomore: You could club a baby with that.
Me: This is true. Do you know what you’re doing yours on yet?
Me: Your thesis. Do you know what you’re doing it on?
Sophomore (in a tiny, nervous voice): …no.
Me: Ah. How long does it have to be?
Sophomore (in a tinier, more nervous voice):…a hundred pages.
Me: You hadn’t really thought about it yet?
Sophomore (in a voice not unlike a pygmy mouse with an anxious constitution):…huh-uh.
The sophomore reaches out a hand and flips through some of my pages. He swallows mightily and rubs the back of his neck.
Sophomore: I think I just shit myself.
Me: Don’t worry. It’ll pass. Deep breaths.
Now that I’m finished, I’ve been feeling somewhat high off accomplishment. Tonight, I will do another great bundle of work, and then I’ll drink myself stupid. Ah, the last days of college, that noble institution.