At the bottom of the cup: the end of the semester

It's over. No longer will my tweets read: I am going to make it through this year, if it kills me. I made it. Marks aren't in, and I'm making few promises my GPA is on the rise, but at least for now, it's over.

The last exam was essay-form, which was easily filled with Obama-speech references and Aerosmith lyrics. Then, joined by some of my closest classmates, we made our way to a pub decorated like a library, if only for irony. We put down our pens and raised our pints in celebration, hoping we could drink away at least some of what we'd learned.

Until autumn ends our summer bliss, I'll have only books borrowed from friends filling my head. Critical analysis and academic rhetoric will warp into beach paperbacks and cottage prose. I will still be up late reading, but the biline will not read Gloria Steinem, Susan Sontag or Naomi Klein.

Until the first day of September, it just me.
Me, and Bukowski.