In every class it seems like I’m hearing the same thing. Halloween? What is that? Oh well, we’ll give you a midterm on Nov. 1 anyway. You know, why not throw in a research paper on the Hawley-Smoot Tariff Act due that day, too. While you’re at it, here’s a 500-page book on Banobos you need to finish ASAP.

I still haven’t thought of a costume for Tuesday evening, but at this point, I feel like my professors are telling me I need to add a textbook and a highlighter to my outfit. Maybe I’ll be a giant flashcard. Naw, I’d be ripped apart in seconds once some dude dressed as a colossal joint figures out he forgot a crutch. There go my Chandler notes.

I feel like it’s always this way, though. The fourth week of Fall Quarter reminds me of being woken up in my birthday suit on the living room floor as a bucket full of ice cold water pours across my hung over carcass. But at least my roommate didn’t nail my crotch this time. That high bastard’s aim must have been a little off. Now I guess I’ll have to name one of my kids after him. He might have preserved a few anxious haploids.

I can’t stand children. Be a camp counselor for six years and tell me you love children – I won’t believe you. The problem is that I loathe their parents even more. Summer meant freedom to those rambunctious devils, but their moms and pops never got the clue. Most of their offspring grew up wishing they knew what a whole summer was, only to be handcuffed to a classroom desk wherever their parents enrolled them in the fast approaching fall.

I always told my campers that summer was a chance to change. No teachers, no homework, no rules. It was a break from the monotony. They’d ask me what monotony meant. I’d say it was Jamaican for Monopoly. They’d forget what I was talking about and race to the game chest. Then I’d sit in solitude and realize how groovy a little change could be. They were high times, but it never helped that I knew I’d also be back to the daily grind once the leaves started dropping.

At least my campers hadn’t figured out procrastination yet. I don’t know how I could have explained that one to them. Maybe somewhere along the lines of: Well guys, procrastination is when you’re glued to World of Warcraft for 12 hours straight the night before a test and you just can’t crack open a book. It’s when you give in to that girl who wants to come over for the night when you should be polishing your Spanish. It’s when a combination of coffee, cigarettes and Adderall looks like your only savior. Then they’d ask what Adderall was. I’d tell them it was the green shit Popeye was always scarfing.

We’ve all made procrastination a habit by now. It’s a ritual we’ve come to expect and one we’ve learned to perfect. It’s motivating actually. What better way to scare the shit out of yourself and get your ass in gear? I’m sure most of you are as good at procrastinating as I am at getting someone else to pack the bong for a quick snapper. My problem is that I just need something to ignite my inner collegiate flame once in a while.

“Hey, bro. Pass it, bro. Yo, don’t make me go Mac Dre status on you, homes.”

I’ll admit. I was hogging it for way too long. But shit, what was I supposed to do? My midterm was the next day. Wait Jeff, don’t forget the eight-pager, too. If I was going to pass my freshest cylindrical conception, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be any time soon. Mary and I had a date with existentialism – school could wait for after the rotation.

It was inspiring. The air smelled like a fresh rain fatefully falling after a genius’ death: While her blood slowly sieves through the earth, everyone anticipates the next mastermind to take her place on the shoulders of those who came before her. I guess our elders would say I’m killing my brain cells, an unusual studying tactic, but I like to call it a warm-up exercise for the ones still left.

Daily Nexus columnist Jeff Gibson will go Mac Dre on his midterm.