This time there is hope, though. It’s my 8th and final semester. Oh, the friends, eating out, and all of the talks are fun. There are just these damn classes to arrive at on time and those indomitable papers that I would pay hundreds of dollars to avoid
Reading the syllabus for one of my classes, paying particular attention to the section enumerating all of the requirements for the 30%-of-your-grade writing assignment, I muttered a low and dejected "fuck."
The class: Doctrine of Holiness
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