Ho hum.

Well there goes my last day of class. This time last term I was a heaving, shaking, gibbering, hyperventilating wreck. Someone had exploded a small missile inside my brain and my skull was full of shrapnel. I kept jerking awake in the middle of the night shouting "WHAT? WHAT?"

I expected to recognise getting to the end of my second and final semester by a repetition of the slow stress escalation. The reality is I am almost completely serene. Today was up, and down, and strange. I had my last class with a teacher I adore, cried all the way to North Gate: then had to sit through the first ten minutes of my journalism class with my sunglasses on to hide the eyeliner disaster.

I had my class, then an exam and was done. No big fanfare, no confetti cannon.I walked back across the Sproul plaza and watched the man who stands at the mouth of Bancroft using washing up liquid and string to create the worlds largest bubbles, and then I went back to my room.

A completely quiet end to something I'd been working up to for years- since before I even came to college really. University, excuse me. There, you see: the Americanisms are in my blood now.

How very whack.

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