3B
Wednesday, November 15, 2017 // The Statement 

Soundtracking: Midterms

I 

did this to myself. I have no one else to 
blame but yours truly.

I had a syllabus. I had a to-do list app on 

my phone and my laptop. I even had sticky 

notes taped to my mirror to remind me to start 
earlier. I knew having a midterm paper and an exam 
on the same day would be a recipe for disaster, but I 
didn’t think about the fact that I’m a shitty cook.

The paper has to be 1,400 to 1,500 words. The 

exam is multiple choice and free response. It’s 9 p.m. 
and I decide to head to the Hatcher Graduate Library 
Reference Room. It’s big enough where if I crawled 
under the desk and died, it would take a few days for 
someone to discover my lifeless body and arrange for 
me to take my exam in the afterlife.

On my way to the Graduate Library, I pick up a 

large black coffee and a Red Bull. I’ve never had one 
before, but it seems like a rite of passage for a small 
boy about to cram for the worst day of his life. My 
friends pulled all-nighters almost every week last 
year. The honors math track almost got the best of 
them. I’d be going to bed around midnight or 1 in 
the morning Thursday night, and I’d walk past my 
friends, their heads buried in their pages of math 
homework. “Night, guys!” I’d say as I walk past. 
They’d all look up, bags under their eyes and sadness 
radiating. I promised myself I’d never put myself 
through that form of hell. Must’ve crossed my fingers 
or something ’cause I went right ahead and broke that 
promise by waiting to start so late.

I slam my backpack on the ground in the Reference 

Room. Heads jolt up, but I’m too busy getting ready 
to face my demons to care. My coffee and Red Bull 
sitting on the desk, I open my laptop and pull up the 
study guide. In the wise words of Lil Pump, “Esketit.”

All Night — Chance the Rapper
“All night, I’ve been drinking all night, I’ve been 

drinking all night, I’ve been drinking, ay ay”

Working through my haphazard lecture notes 

and attempting to stay focused on the vocab, I keep 
sipping from my chalices, alternating between hot 
and cold. As the clock winds forward, both elixirs 
become lukewarm and gross.

I’ve been staring at this vocab sheet for three hours 

now and I still know nothing, which is a really good 
start, I’d say. Comparing my dismal notes to the 
lecture slides on Canvas, there is a clear discrepancy. 
Sometimes I think about what it was like 40 years 
ago when you had to just write down everything the 
professor said to be prepared for an exam. When 
middle schoolers who love the Rolling Stones and the 
Who say, “I was born in the wrong generation,” I don’t 
think they realize the gravity of that statement. Try 
studying for an exam without PowerPoint, kid.

I keep looking at the exam review, then my notes, 

then the slideshow. Vocab, notes, slideshow, repeat. 
These definitions make zero sense, but writing them 
down is the only hope I have at this point.

Definition — Black Star
My eyes are drooping. This can’t happen now. Wake 

up, Matt. I smack myself across the face a few times to 
jolt myself up. The girl next to me gives me the side 
eye. Nice to meet you, hardworking student who will 
probably leave way before me.

Just as I start to drift off a little, a loud bell chimes 

across the Reference Room. I look at my watch: 12:00. 
A voice rings over the speaker but no words can be 
deciphered. It sounds like a parent in a Charlie Brown 
holiday special. All I can make out is it’s midnight and 
something about University of Michigan students. He 
could be telling me everything on my exam tomorrow 
and I would never know. What a shame.

I reach for my Red Bull. Nothing. It’s empty like 

my soul at this point. Same with my coffee. A brown 
ring lines the bottom of my cup. With my body full of 
caffeine and regret, I contemplate my next move.

No Coffee — Amber Coffman
I can’t stay here anymore. I need to get out. I feel 

trapped like Sybil in her jar. Yeah, that was a T.S. Eliot 
reference. I’m capable of more than just kids’ movies 
and Nickelodeon references. Where’s my upper-level 
writing requirement fulfillment?

I pack up my stuff and head back to the South Quad 

Residence Hall basement, the same place my friends 
spent every Thursday night and Friday morning last 
year. Life gets a kick out of irony.

With my life wasting away, I decide to roll the dice 

and start breaking away at this paper. Hopefully, it’ll 
be better than the exam.

*Three hours later*
I think I’m delusional. I’m drying up.
Water Me — Lizzo
If you’re reading this, if you’ve made it this far, send 

help. I’m only 600 words into a 1,400-word essay and 
I don’t know if I’ll make it.

Reflecting on the events that led me to this moment 

isn’t pleasant, but the only way we grow is through 
learning from our mistakes. Honestly, I’d rather learn 
enough to ace this exam and finish this paper instead, 
but I guess this’ll do.

I can’t believe I thought this would be a blessing. 

Two big grades the same day? Let’s get them out of 
the way! Nothing could go wrong. After I’m done, 
it’s all downhill until the end of the semester. Too 

bad I might never make it up the 
hill to begin with.

One-hundred words in my essay 

later, I check my watch again. Oh 
no.

4:44 — JAY-Z
How the hell is it almost 5 

in the morning? I haven’t done 
anything. This night has been the 
educational equivalent of going 
trick-or-treating and only getting 
toothbrushes and Dots.

I’m writing this essay but I’m 

not even sure what the English 
language is at this point. The lines 
blur together. I hope this bad boy 
is even slightly coherent. This is 
the biggest RIP. Time slows and 
speeds by simultaneously. What is 
life?

____45_____ — Bon Iver
*Three more hours later*
You know that episode of 

“SpongeBob” when Mr. Krabs is 
calling the radio station asking for 

the song that goes “Beep beep boop bebop boop bop?” 
That’s basically my inner monologue at this point. Nine 
a.m. is not a good look on this young lad. Still wearing 
the same outfit as yesterday, I have made a Matt 
Harmon-shaped dent in this couch I’ve been sitting on.

I’ve watched the dining hall open for the unfortunate 

souls with 8 a.m. classes. Well-rested students fresh 
out of the shower get ready to face the day with an 
enthusiasm unknown to mankind while I fade into 
oblivion.

The same friends in my position last year are no 

longer on the honors math track, which means they get 
eight hours of wonderful sleep now. I see them walk 
down the stairs from the South Quad lobby to greet me. 
I knew this day would come.

“How’re you feelin’, Matt?” they ask. I guess this 

is what I deserve. I just didn’t think it would sting as 
much.

They head off to their 9 o’clocks as I stay right where 

I was. I hope they visit in an hour.

Call Me on Your Way Back Home — Ryan Adams
Four hours until my exam, my paper is done. It may 

have been written with my blood, sweat and tears, but 
it’s done. I don’t think it was actually Hemingway who 
said, “Write drunk, edit sober,” but last night, I was not 
drunk and I will definitely not be editing this paper 
at all so looks as if I failed Ernest or whoever he 
stole the mantra from.

I walk into class, ready to turn in my paper and do 

some last-minute cramming for my exam in a few 
hours. My eyes are dead, the fire inside has burned 
out. I ask my friend in lecture when we’re turning 
in the paper. What she said proved someone is out 
to get me. By someone, I mean myself because as I 
said before, I have no one else to blame but yours 
truly.

“The paper? You mean the one that’s due next 

week?” she said.

Ballad of the Dying Man — Father John Misty

BY MATT HARMON, DAILY STAFF REPORTER

ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY KOFFSKY

