Thursday, December 1

50. (Fifty.)

We're coming up on the bad times. Reports are due. People are getting stressed. The outflow of books is beginning to reverse itself. Finals Week is upon is. But no one gives a fuck about your final paper. We don't care if you've got to study. You've got books to sort, so get your ass in gear.

Finals Week! The end of a semester! The end of an era--an era of laziness, sloth, and ineptitude! We enter these last weeks of 2005 with the knowledge that not all of us will make it out the other side. You don't know fear until you've seen a man crushed to death under the weight of a cartload of bound periodicals of ridiculous size.

Finals Week seperates the wills from the can'ts. The men from the boys. Them women from the girls. Finals Week tells us who's going to make it here at the library, and let me tell you, it's not going to be pretty. Men will cry. Women will go into hysterics. Hands will bleed and wrists will ache from the sheer number of books brought in, magnetized, barcoded, discharged, stamped, sorted, and ordered.

Finals Week. The bad times. I'll see you on the other side, soldier.