Apparently I neither write, draw or blog much when on vacation. Shame – that is what I am supposed to do during those days off. Instead, I read. And I read to the point in which I start losing sleep. Sense I make? None.
Anyhow, classes start up again on Tuesday and that always prompts a bit of melancholy-esque reflections for me. Yes, I tend to reflect on my life/year right before the fall semester. Yes, that’s bloody insane, I know. New Years has no import to me – the beginning of the fall semester is actually the beginning of my new year. It’s strange, but I have always felt that way. (My birthday, for those interested, occurred just after the end of the school year up until I started university, which ends before May, and, thus, my birthday now ends up near the middle of the break.)
This year could have been the last year in which I have a proper end and beginning. While my credit count says that I’m entering my second semester of my third year, I have enrolled in eight semesters – four years. No, I am not entering my ‘fifth’ year of study – I’m entering my fourth. No, I didn’t take three or four classes in the fall/winter semesters and picked up the slack in the summer. I’m a co-op student; when I worked, I was gaining credits. Well, one credit a work term. (A completely useless number – the U of R uses the three-credits-per-class system (since there are three lecture hours a week per class) and there are four work terms required. I’m going to end up graduating with a minimum of one extra credit.) So, needless to say, if I had just gone off to acquire a standard B.Sc., I would be out in the work world in eight short months.
Cue panic.