Spring break?

...more like spring fake

I was asked some weeks ago where I would be going for spring break.

“The bathroom, if I’m lucky,” I responded.

This response is by no means inspired by my love for long sessions on the porcelain poo pot, but a reference to my hefty workload.

Most instructors realize the need for students to refresh their growing minds during this holiday, and typically offer light workloads. What they don’t realize is that many students take many classes, are involved in organizations, have to work to earn that sweet, sweet cash and might have other obligations that require their time or effort. Spring break assignments might seem small individually, but accumulated they can render any idea of “time off” as a laughably immense task that’s anything but funny.

For some, spring break is free time. For others, it is crunch time. Or catch-up time.

Some of us can claim responsibility for our own overload. I, personally, was not obligated to join a history honors-based organization. Nobody broke my knuckles to accept dual positions at the Torch. I was not pressured at gunpoint to choose a difficult research topic in Asian History, or present a separate research paper at a conference in Southeast Michigan.

I did these things, like many of us do, because I want a full college experience to maximize my real-world skills and blow up my résumé. Unfortunately, this comes at the sacrifice of travel, relaxation, a love life, a night life and a healthy level of sunlight-boosting vitamin D.

Add to these the fact I’m a GROWN ASS man with the responsibility of a GROWN ASS house, and I see myself with a month’s load of projects and housework crammed into the odd hours of a single week that otherwise would not get done without the … *ahem* … “time off.”

My mood could be considered bitter, salty or sour. Basically my emotions range across a spectrum of unpleasant flavors. And I can be an unpleasant person as a result.

And it’s nobody’s fault. I have no right to point my finger at anybody in blame.

But I CAN point my finger in judgment, in jealousy and in spite.

So get ready to eat my words.

(Names below are totally made up and not based on real persons…)

(…but how often is that statement actually true?)

So while you — Becky — were hitting the beach in a crop top and high waisters, I was hitting the books in a bathrobe and sweatpants. I hope you were stung by a jellyfish.

While you — Chad — were lining up shots of tequila in a Mexican hotel with your elegant bros, I was lining up paragraphs of Spanish homework into eloquent prose. I hope you puked on your friends.

While you — Brody — were soaking in the saltwater with your best bois playing water polo, I was a salty boi drinking Smart Water, soaking in the exploits of Marco Polo. I hope you drowned a little bit — not enough to die — just enough to reminisce on an empty, wasteful, privileged life.

While you — Shawna — were at a luxury resort camp reading “Fifty Shades of Grey,” I was researching North Korean prison camps while dressed in three shades of beige. I hope you caught malaria from those exotic mosquitoes.

While you — Carly — were riding the mechanical rodeo bull hard and long in Panama City, I was writing this moronical bloated “bull” article, alone and shitty. I hope you were thrown off into a vat of hepatitis.

So if I see ya’ll tanned faces smelling like yesterday’s whiskey and a faint summer breeze, and I begin to audibly growl, I’m sorry. You don’t actually deserve it.

But whatever, I don’t care. Go back to Hell from whence you came. Jonny out. *drops mic*