Hold Your Horses!
Esteban Riojas
Issue date: 2/12/08 Section: Voices
(To be read to the sound of a full-fledged Symphony Orchestra tuning their instruments before a tempestuous concert, in forceful anticipating strain)
Woke up this morning drowning in a sweat soaked bed; my mind cooking an anxiety attack with a dash of salty persecution paranoia. Ever since I came back to New York from the break, I am in a state of Unagi: my muscles are tensioned like Seabiscuit waiting to snap out of the gate at the sound of the gunshot. But the rapt attention in class from semesters past is absent; I have reached a point where I can see only the professor's socks as he chews muffled words like Charlie Brown's teacher. The hair on the back of my neck is always pointing towards Mecca; I have the creepy suspicious look of the girl in the "Walk like an Egyptian" video. I didn't hand in my last article before deadline. I even disrespected the Bing.
This self-induced mind storm is unjustified, and not only because my life is perfect today: I just came back from a month surfing in the paradisiacal beaches of Brazil; where spirits are free, bikinis are muito pequenos and caipirinhas are sold in bulk. Most of you also traveled abroad. I'm also skiing next week with 13 of my fellow Sternies, a trip which promises to deliver a high-octane dose of swashbuckling adventure. Can it be my diet, you worriedly inquire? I usually chow down on hippie-unapproved biogenetically engineered selections from every food group, but vegetables nonetheless, so that's not it. I exercise a lot; add a mustache and I'd pass for a 19th century boxer. And the rest of my physical needs are very well taken care of, don't you fret about that.
But, thing is, I asked for it. I have a job lined up after graduation in Ringling Brothers, you know that. That should be the cherry on top. But that's just it. This milestone signifies the end of the MBA. I sold my soul for two years of explosive binging and frolicking and revelry, as well as the opportunity to stay here afterwards, and the devil has finally decided to ask for the check in a life of banking. L'addition s'il vous plait! (Lucifer sounds French, doesn't he?). I'm clinically depressed because I know it will all be over soon.
Woke up this morning drowning in a sweat soaked bed; my mind cooking an anxiety attack with a dash of salty persecution paranoia. Ever since I came back to New York from the break, I am in a state of Unagi: my muscles are tensioned like Seabiscuit waiting to snap out of the gate at the sound of the gunshot. But the rapt attention in class from semesters past is absent; I have reached a point where I can see only the professor's socks as he chews muffled words like Charlie Brown's teacher. The hair on the back of my neck is always pointing towards Mecca; I have the creepy suspicious look of the girl in the "Walk like an Egyptian" video. I didn't hand in my last article before deadline. I even disrespected the Bing.
This self-induced mind storm is unjustified, and not only because my life is perfect today: I just came back from a month surfing in the paradisiacal beaches of Brazil; where spirits are free, bikinis are muito pequenos and caipirinhas are sold in bulk. Most of you also traveled abroad. I'm also skiing next week with 13 of my fellow Sternies, a trip which promises to deliver a high-octane dose of swashbuckling adventure. Can it be my diet, you worriedly inquire? I usually chow down on hippie-unapproved biogenetically engineered selections from every food group, but vegetables nonetheless, so that's not it. I exercise a lot; add a mustache and I'd pass for a 19th century boxer. And the rest of my physical needs are very well taken care of, don't you fret about that.
But, thing is, I asked for it. I have a job lined up after graduation in Ringling Brothers, you know that. That should be the cherry on top. But that's just it. This milestone signifies the end of the MBA. I sold my soul for two years of explosive binging and frolicking and revelry, as well as the opportunity to stay here afterwards, and the devil has finally decided to ask for the check in a life of banking. L'addition s'il vous plait! (Lucifer sounds French, doesn't he?). I'm clinically depressed because I know it will all be over soon.
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