Dear Junior Year,

It’s not me, it’s you. I can’t keep coming home every night with nothing left inside. You’ve taken my dignity, my joy, and my backpack space. I used to think I was smart, that I knew how chemistry works, but the chemistry between us is lacking. This year has left me more drained, sad, and confused than I’ve ever been, and I’m sure you knew when the beginning of the end began.

It was right around this time last year, and your promise enticed me. Classes aplenty, time to spare. Ha ha ha. It was course registration—how ever did you convince me that taking seven advanced courses was an acceptable decision as a mere sophomore? My free time has passed me by quicker than the weight of my first ICW.

No longer do I have time to spare on reading for fun. Outside of my english books, I resort to trashy romance novels to build back my sanity. After devouring the last 60—yes, 60—pages of The Handmaid’s Tale last night, I needed to take an hour-long bath at midnight to recuperate. And yes, I did bring my kindle into the bath to continue my trashy novel.

This is what you’ve reduced me to, Junior Year. A romance-reading, sappy loser! I can’t keep doing this, so I think I know what I need to do. I’m breaking up with you. Don’t call me back with any grades; I don’t take credit for them.

With more than minimal hate in my heart,

Tekle