Every Sleep-Deprived Thought You Have While Cramming For Midterms, Explained By Lorelai and Rory Gilmore

It’s the day before your biggest midterm, and you still haven’t started studying. You take one look at the material and realize what a huge mistake you’ve made.

You don’t even remember the last time you actually went to this class. Last week? Last month?

No way you can get by with just skimming the material right before class. This is going to be an all-nighter.

This calls for lots and lots of coffee.

But coffee isn’t going to cut it. You need prescription-strength reinforcements.

You ask if some of your sorority sisters want to join you at the library to study with you, because you could use the company. Regret sinks in thirty minutes later when they arrive, ten sisters deep, and they won’t stop talking.

The Adderall kicks in and now you’re in your zone. You’re zooming through the textbook, writing on ten flashcards a minute. You look up at the clock and realize you’ve been studying for four hours straight.

All of the words on the page officially look like gibberish and you firmly believe no new information can enter your brain.

Breathe. Cry. Try breathing again. Fail.

Five-minute dance break and then back to studying.

Some kind soul takes mercy on the class procrastinators and creates a Google doc with all the correct answers already filled in.

Now that you have all the answers, you can finally breathe. You look around the library for a distraction and you lock eyes with the hot guy studying for his business or government midterm. You picture what your future babies would look like.

Okay, time to focus. Only fifty more flashcards to make. You can do this.

Your big texts you to ask how studying is going.

The professor sends everyone a kind reminder that this test is worth 40 percent of your final grade.

The library barista refuses to give you more coffee because he thinks five cups are enough to give you a heart attack. Fuck that guy.

Your mom calls you to check in and you revert back to childhood because real adult life is just too much for you right now.

You remind yourself that even if you do fail this test, you can always marry rich.

You finally get home from the library after a twelve-hour marathon study session.

Everything hurts. You’re hungry and tired and just want today to be over.

You have one hour to take a nap and your roommate barges in with a problem that could definitely wait until you’re a functioning human being again.

Wake up, not feeling flawless. This is it. It’s the morning of, and you’re up at the crack of dawn to get one last hour of studying in.

The test is in an hour. Someone posts on the class Facebook page asking if he can borrow someone’s notes, because his car caught on fire after saving a kitten with Ebola from a tree, or some other lame excuse.

Walking to class, feeling like death itself. You contemplate making up an excuse that will keep you from having to take this midterm, like getting hit by a deer.

Professor: “I hope all of you are adequately prepared for this exam, and if you did all your studying last night, I’ll be able to tell.”

You see your friend in next aisle and you can tell she was up studying all night like you. Twinsies!

FINALLY you finish the exam after what felt like forever. You’re exhausted, defeated, and in an act of despair, you throw all your notes in the trash can.

Then you realize the final is cumulative and now you’re the crazy girl fishing in the trash for your precious notes.

Grades get handed back and it wasn’t pretty, but you passed. Cs get degrees, right? You’re one step closer to finishing this year and doing this at graduation:

Go you.

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Cristina Montemayor

Cristina is a Grandex Writer and Content Manager. She was an intern for over two years before she graduated a semester early to write about college full time, which makes absolutely no sense. She regretfully considers herself a Carrie, but is first and foremost a Rory. She tends to draw strong reactions from people. They are occasionally positive. You can find her in a bar as you're bending down to tie your shoes, drinking Dos XX and drunk crying to Elton John. Email her: (not .com).

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