Sophomore Year

It began much the same as the previous year. There I was, lugging a carload of useless amenities (Lysol, Windex, etc.) into the basement of Onondaga once again. I had chosen to stay in the same room because I hate stairs. Walking on an incline started making my heart palpitate since I had gained those 40 pounds my freshman year, so I decided it was better to just live in the grime I was accustomed to with the same unstable roommate, Andy. His blades had gotten longer, and I was sure that at any point there was guaranteed to be a knife point within a foot of my face. Regardless, I figured it was safer living with the enemy I knew than the enemy I didn’t.

After a dismal year academically, I was determined to get much higher grades, but with a minimal amount of effort. I had been quite proficient at this in high school, and my first year had put me to the test. Whereas in high school I could get As without reading “A Separate Peace,” I found that it was much harder to pass a test in college without reading. With a year of failure behind me, I delivered a touching soliloquy to the bathroom mirror, in which, among other things, I swore to coast through the year to the best of my abilities, doing just enough work to get by.

It started off well enough. With a course load that included Creative Writing, Running and Wellness, and Math in Action, I was sure to impress everyone with my stellar marks. Creative Writing was a breeze. Epic, harrowing tales of survival and cannibalism are “A-plus” material. Math in Action, despite a professor who sounded like Uter on “The Simpsons,” was a breeze.

Would you believe it then, if I told you, that Running and Wellness was the challenge of a lifetime? If you knew me, of course you’d believe it. I haven’t run a day in my goddamn life, and here I was thrusting myself into a class where physical activity was a must.

From day one I kicked myself, but it was hard because I had developed shin-splints. You see, when you don’t run much and then all of a sudden start jogging like crazy, like a certain Mr. Gary Truce made me, your muscles will sometimes tear away from the bones in your leg, causing a most unpleasant feeling. Needless to say, I ran like a wounded little girl, and I got a C in the damned class. What a bitch I was (and am).

Still, I learned a lot that year, and here I shall present to you all, the top three ways to make your work easier, if you dare.

3 — Buy used books/take out library books. Nobody says you have to purchase your books in hardcover and shrink-wrap. Sure, they’ll look pretty in your personal study someday when you buy that big house, but are they worth reading? Nay, I say. When buying required texts, always make sure they’re used, or from the library. There’s a good chance someone before you has highlighted all the important parts, saving you the trouble of looking at a syllabus to see what you have to read. Just look for the fluorescent yellow (or in some cases, the green underline), and you’re already on easy street.

2 — Sit in the front of class and act like you know what you’re talking about. You’re going to feel like a tool, surely, but when you make nice with the professor, they’ll remember you when that paper doesn’t quite live up to academic standards. So your opening sentence was, “In this essay, I will explain why George Washington totally sucked ass.” It’s fine, as long as you sit obnoxiously close to your professor as he/she lectures and you can interject your historical witticisms as they go along. “Monticello? More like, ‘I want Jello!’” Oh, what a laugh you’ll have — all the way to Hell, you slimy bastard.

1 — Make a friend in class who knows what they’re doing. I’m not saying cheat off of them or plagiarize their papers — just, you know, have them give you direction. After a semester of never opening a textbook, a good classmate chum is invaluable for photocopying notes and lending you that 600-page psychology reader you didn’t buy because it cut into your beer fund. Just so you’re not a complete parasite, be sure to help out your friend any way you can. Perhaps a back rub would do the trick, or a fine bottle of Bordeaux. A man massaging another man might seem a little gay, but look at it this way: if it was two girls, it would be totally sweet.