Edited by : Abheri Banerjee
So, I walked into college thinking, “I’ve got this. I’m a whole vibe.” I was armed with a planner, new highlighters, and the certainty that I was going to absolutely crush it. You know the type – first day, fresh-faced, fully convinced I was the main character in my own personal rom-com. Four courses? Easy. Three clubs? Pfft, I’ll make it work. Four societies? Sure, why not. I was going to be that effortlessly cool, yet somehow perfect, student. It was going to be a cinematic semester.
Then the reality hit: there are only 24 hours in a day. And for some reason, no one warned me that you can’t actually do everything. Like, can someone explain how it’s possible to have a full class schedule, attend all the club meetings, write essays that aren’t plagiarized, and still manage to eat something that isn’t takeout? You can’t. It’s physically impossible. But, of course, I didn’t listen to that little voice in my head. So I tried, and tried, and tried some more. And guess what? I’m exhausted.
By the second week, I was deep into my delusion of perfection, running from one meeting to the next, reading just enough to get by, and somehow managing to show up to class looking like I had it all together. But, spoiler alert: I didn’t. At all. My idea of “doing it all” was basically me showing up to class and praying no one noticed that I had no idea what was going on. But I was trying – and isn’t that what matters? Sure, maybe I didn’t have time to read all the pages, or really any of the pages, but I was wearing cute outfits. So that had to count for something, right?
And then – midterms. Oh boy. I thought I was prepared. I really did. The night before, I tried to convince myself I had studied enough and would definitely pass. But let’s be real, I was probably more focused on whether or not my eyeliner looked sharp enough. I mean, priorities. When the grades came back? One A. One. And the rest? B’s. But hey, at least it wasn’t a C, right? Because who really needs an A when you look this good? Honestly, I can’t be the only one who thinks grades are a mildly overrated concept anyway. I’ll get by. I always do.
And speaking of class participation – yikes. Who knew talking in class would feel like trying to do algebra on a unicycle? I just sit there, smiling and nodding, pretending like I’m fully engaged while my brain is actually trying to figure out if it’s too early for coffee. I mean, it’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m doing great. I’ve read the material. I definitely understand it… most of it… sort of. But seriously, who actually enjoys class participation? Just let me slide by without making a fool of myself, okay?
Office hours were basically a personal hell. I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to talk to professors about my non-existent understanding of their course material. Me, trying to sound smart in office hours, was like a bad reality TV moment. “Oh, yes, I absolutely read everything. Yes, totally understood that reading. Now, if you could just explain it to me one more time…” Classic me. But who cares, right? I’m charming. And that should count for something, right?
So, yeah. Midterms came and went, and then there was this magical thing called end-of-semester panic. I had three essays left to submit. You’d think I’d be in a full-on “I must save my grades” frenzy. But instead, I was more like, “Do I really need all these grades? I’m cute. I’ll survive.” But, deep down, I know I’m just lying to myself because, like, who actually wants to flunk out of college?
But hey, I’m still here. I’ve survived. I’ve got three essays left to finish (no big deal), and I’m still functioning. Kind of. I think. At least I’m pretending to be fine, and that’s all that really matters, right? Because really, who needs perfect grades when you’re wearing a cute outfit and smiling like you’ve got it all under control?
Oh, and fun fact – I was almost put on probation by Her Campus for this whole “I’m pretending everything is fine” act. But hey, here I am, still writing, still pretending. So, there’s that.
Here I am, the end of the semester, still pretending like I know what’s going on. Three essays? I’ll get to them. Or, maybe I won’t. But who cares? I’m pretty. And at the end of the day, that’s what really counts. Right?
Ps. If you couldn’t figure out, it was all a satire.
Pps. My grades are out. I didn’t flunk out of college. Days are all happy again.
Adios.