the end of sophomore spring.

The second semester of sophomore year was drawing to a close, and I was ready. Part of me could have gone on partying and skipping class forever, but another, larger part was exhausted. Now I had 72 hours where all that stood between me and home was packing up my room and shipping its entire contents across country, handing in two term papers, and studying for exams in classes that I had attended a handful of times. The worst would be art history 121, my last exam. I had gone to lecture maybe three times, and that’s counting the incidences where I came in late, sat for ten minutes passing notes back and forth with Bonne, and left again.

I, of course, justified my behavior in all kinds of ways. The class was remedial. The teacher spoke in a monotone drone. It was impossible to concentrate since everyone else was on their cell phones, chatting, passing notes.

It was a carnival land outside; why memorize useless facts about Gothic architecture when you could be eating fresh sushi in the garden, followed by ice cream perched next to a fountain, then lie on the sunny lawn for a while digesting, then burn everything off with a spinning class followed by yoga to cool down, then you call your friend Pam and she meets you outside at the pool with mojitos (concealed in water bottles, of course) and you lie back and tan and drink and talk and soon before you know it evening is settling in and its time to find the gang and see what’s on the entertainment agenda: party on campus or the Hollywood Hills, movie night, dinner in LA, art gallery opening... or a little bit of everything?

That was my daily schedule and I was loath to change it. Especially with something so prosaic as class.

I somehow completed the initial papers and exams in a whirly blur of libraries and snacks and vodka and early morning cigarettes, of racing from place to place on Bernice, of curling up on the pile of clothes in my friend Ana's room with computer and champagne...

Ana had coerced me into spending the final days of madness on her floor, and somehow, the mess of her life made me feel comfortable and cocooned. However reckless and unprepared and unstudious I had been that semester, I was nothing compared to Ana. She insisted that I have a good time even as I worked, and so in between paragraphs of analysis I was shown clips of movies, introduced to new bands, served experimental drinks, and taken out for flavored cigarette breaks. I encouraged her to join me in feigning productivity, considering she had a 10 page paper due the next day, but she waved me off, concentrating instead on the considerable stash of pink champagne. 

I passed in my paper on Andy Warhol. I had one exam, and the packing up of my room, to go. I spent all day Wednesday organizing, boxing, taping. I was fraught with anxiety that I couldn't ignore any longer now that the champagne was gone. How was I going to get this all shipped before tomorrow? How in the WORLD was I going to learn all I needed to know for art history before 11am?

I made both a smart move and a mistake in admitting my incapacity, and calling my friend Simon to ask him for the favor of helping me with the boxes. It was smart in that he cheerfully and quickly helped me load all seven or eight boxes into our friend's SUV, and drove me to the closest FedEx, where business was taken care of in no time. It was a lesson in how easily things can be done when you swallow your pride to ask for help. 

But on the way home, I saw the flip side of involving other people in your affairs; you have to accommodate their own whims. And Simon's whim was to drop by Barbara and company's apartment just to say hello, and so we did, and they were there and already well into the smoking loon and pink champagne, on account of this being our last night and all, and before I knew it I was agreeing to a glass, just a glass!, of smoking loon. 

"Maybe it will help me relax," I told myself as I drained it. And that was the beginning of the end.