If you wonder why I'm majoring in English.

My Tuesdays and Thursdays are the absolute worst.

They begin at the ass-crack of dawn. No wait! Before the ass-crack of dawn. It's like the anti-ass-crack. Like the morning is wearing a belt or something and you're just waiting for the morning to bend over so you can finally see that ass-crack you've been longing for. Then it finally does bend over, but that damn belt is keeping that ass from showing any crack!

Say crack one more time.
Crack.

I get up at 5:45 AM and am out the door by 5:55. Dani, Sara, and I slowly slouch around our dorm room, pouring ourselves bowls of cereal, applying deodorant that we know in the end will do absolutely nothing, and staying silent.

We literally don't say words to each other. If we need to communicate, we do so in grunts.

Dani: Uhhh.
Sara: Hhuu-gg
Jeannie: Mhhmmgg.

Translation:
Dani: Don't forget your key this time Jean.
Sara: Dan, we gotta make sure your car doesn't have any ice on it this time.
Jeannie: Mhmmgg.

We're like cavewomen.

Then we meander into our early morning lifting session. We start the lift off with finding our heart rate. Wait. I should actually say we start the lift off by all of us struggling to find our heart rate. Turns out some people on my team are the walking dead. Zombies if you will. Both literally (because of the extremely bad counting of heart beats that leads to deathly low heart rates) and figuratively (because it's six in the effing morning)

Whatever whatever. I try to pull some jokes. Give people high fives. Ya know. Brighten the spirits of my teammates in the morning. Turns out. People don't laugh or return high-fives in the morning. People are evil in the mornings.

THEY HAVE NO SOULS. I seen it. I can attest to it. I swear to you with all my powerful thoughts and beliefs...

So then we lift. Lots of weights. Lots and lots. To the point where, at the end, I forget how to walk and my legs just kind of turn to this spaghetti  type feeling. I think they actually look like wobbly, cartoon legs. That aint no hyperbole. Honest!

Then the lifting is over. I grab my free milk and head over to the bus for my 7:30 Math class.
Don't worry. My day is just getting started.

As Jenn, Shay, and I sit on the bus, we talk in volumes that should not be heard in the morning. But seeing as we've been up for 2 hours all ready. Frankly my dear, we don't give two shits. Everyone glares at us, sure. I would too if I heard three girls laughing and saying any words at all in the morning like that. We may be inconsiderate, but hay there. We have fun.

After Math I have poetry.
I've fallen asleep in the past 3 poetry classes. But the subtle sleep where it just looks like I'm blinking for a ridiculous amount of time.

"Oh sorry. Right no. My eyes are just really dry from this inversion that we've been having up here. So I need to blink for extra long to make sure my eyeballs get all the moisture that is needed in a healthy, 18 year-old girl's life.....Oh you thought I was sl..? No no! Of course not! The rhyme scheme utilized in John Donne's "Death, be not proud" is so very intriguing! I would NEVER sleep through that!"

Then I have English 2010. Which is actually one of the highlights of my day. My teacher is fantastic in the whole, "I'm going to swear and be an awesome person because these kids are college kids and should know what things are" type mentality.

Then off to Folklore. Where we talk about ghosts. That's about it. End of story. Ghosts. How they came to be in stories. Why. Who. What. Your mom. When. And so on. Plus my teacher's name is Jeannie, so ya know. We be tight.

So then I return home at about 2:00.

BUT. The main reason I brought all this up to you is because I'm an English major. I have lots of English classes. My Tuesdays and Thursdays consist of 3 English classes. 3 classes where I have to write essays and do what I really love to do: Make. Shit. Up.

In poetry one day, a girl was struggling with the meaning behind a line in the poem.

"I don't think I really understand the meaning behind this. I'm not sure what the author is trying to convey."

Then the best advice I've ever heard came out of my professor's mouth. One that I will pass down for generations. To my kid. Then to the neighbor's kid. Then to their cat (if she will sit still and listen to me! My word...)

"Ya. You just kind of have to make it up."

Done. Everything is done.

Screw you Math and Bio majors. When you get an F on a test for putting 13.3 instead of 13.4, I'm sitting over here saying.

"The meaning behind Dickinson's poem 'Wild Nights' is focused on her sexuality. Or committing suicide. Or just rowing away on a boat because she got in a fight with somebody. Or becoming a sailor.  Or fighting off dinosaurs. Or giving a piggy-back ride to Jabba The Hutt's dancer person that gets sent down the hole to be eaten by the monster that Luke eventually defeats"

And you know what my grade would be?

An A.