Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Explain the equation of universal modus tollens using examples from real-life situations.
I'm fucked.
It takes me well over an hour to get through all five pages of the exam. My hand is cramping, my head is throbbing, and an irrational surge of anger flows through my sleep-deprived, caffeinated body whenever someone else gets up to turn in their finished test.
How dare they be done already?
I turn the page to the back, ready for this to be over with, and read the last question.
Thales said 'the most difficult thing in life is to know yourself.'
Who are you?
I try to contain it, to swallow it down, but a bitter laugh escapes that disturbs those around me. I can feel their eyes but I don't look up, my gaze glued to the paper. What kind of fucking question is this? I glare at it, and glare at it, and glare at it some more, before turning my head to subtly peek at Melody's. She's also on the last question, the entire back of the paper filled, like she just wrote her autobiography for him. She sets down her pencil while I'm looking, a smile touching her lips as she stands up to turn it in.
I almost trip her.
I think about it.
I consider it.
My leg bounces in anticipation of darting out in her path, stopping her from walking up there. It's childish, and irrational, but she looks so damn confident while I'm struggling to finish.
Sighing, I turn back to my paper and glare at the question some more. Melody returns and gathers her things, mouthing that she'll see me back at the room.
I merely nod, tapping my pencil against the side of the desk as I listen to others move around. The room is clearing out quickly. I don't like it.
Who am I?
Someone who doesn't like philosophy anymore.
I consider the question for another moment before finally writing my answer.
I don't know.
Standing up, I march to the front of the room, test in hand. Santino looks up at me as I approach. I hand my paper to him, face up, but he turns it over when he takes it. His eyes flicker from my pathetic three- word answer to me, and for the first time all semester, his lips curve.
He's smiling.
At me.
Creepy.
I say nothing, nor do I return his smile, merely walking away. I grab my things and jet out the door, feeling a sense of relief on the walk back to the dorm. Never again am I trusting Melody when she tells me to take a class, when she says it's easy.
I want to go straight to the room, but I have a meeting with my advisor that I'm already late for. I consider skipping it, saying fuck it, but she'll reschedule and I'll be forced to come back out this way.
Sighing, I make my way across the street to another building and head straight inside, plopping down in a chair outside her office. She spots me from the open doorway and waves me inside, launching into small talk.
In one ear and out the other.
The sound of her acrylic fingernails clicking against computer keys echoes through the small office. The woman is hen pecking at the letters, taking way too long to punch my information into the system. She pauses every few seconds to hmm and huh and huff, the sounds grating on my nerves.
Can we just get this over with?
I've registered for all my classes for next semester, a full course-load, and turned in all my paperwork. The counselor is just making sure I'm not missing anything, a process that should've taken thirty seconds, but we're going on five minutes at this point.
"Looks like everything's in order," she says finally. "Most of your final grades have already posted... we're just waiting on philosophy. As long as you graze by with at least a low B in that, your GPA will be high enough to maintain your scholarship, no problem."
She makes it sound so simple. All I need is a B. I'll be lucky as hell if I even get close to that. But I need a 3.5 GPA if I want my tuition paid next year, so a B it has to be.
Dear God, please let me have gotten a B.
"Great," I say. "Is that it?"
"Yes, that's it."
I'm up out of the chair, mumbling my thanks as I bolt for the door. I probably look rude, but I'm too exhausted to care. My thoughts are a flurry of math equations and percentages as I stroll along on my way back to the dorm. I come to the conclusion that to get my B, I need to make an 89 on the final exam.
When I get to the room, Paul's not around. Thank God. Melody is putting on lipstick, babbling something about going out with him to celebrate, but I barely listen. I drop my bag on the floor and take off my pants, not even bothering to put any more on as I fall straight into my bed.
Something startles me awake.
I sit straight up in bed, disoriented, like I've been ripped from a dream I can't quite recall. The room is a pitch-black haze of confusion. It's late.
Really late.
A glance at the clock tells me it's one o'clock in the morning. A glance at Melody's empty bed tells me she still isn't home. Rubbing my eyes, I stand up and stagger to the bathroom. As I'm washing my hands, I hear the door in my room and quiet footsteps along the floor.
Sighing, I turn off the water and dry my hands. Guess I'm not alone anymore. I just hope she didn't bring Paul home with her. The last thing I want to find is a guy in there.
I turn off the bathroom light and step back into the room, blinking, attempting to adjust to the darkness, surprised she didn't turn on the light. I glance toward Melody's bed and pause, brow furrowing.
It's still empty.
I hear a noise to the right of me, a footstep in my direction. My heart stalls, rendering me immobile, before frantically pounding so hard it's like a machine gun going off in my chest. I start to turn that way when arms roughly grab me, yanking me toward them in the shadows.