how silly we were with our arms full of Shakespearean sonnets, early 19th-Century American literature, and a Spanish-English dictionary, Vol. 5. Wish they could have told us that the last final we bombed on Oscar Wilde would never be anything more than the flick of a pen mark staining the page of some weathered grade book that had been tossed aside in a molting cardboard box. And that “A” you received on the paper you spent eight weeks grueling over will quickly reclaim its rightful place at the beginning of the alphabet, and as time wears on, it will become less and less a description of you.
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