“This is what hell feels like,” I said to myself five minutes into being stuck in a small tube, my head being shot by radiation in every kind of way. Hell is literally being bolted into an MRI machine, told to lie perfectly still while your limbs fall asleep, and listening to wicked sounds that would grate the nerves of even the most avid dubstep aficionado.
By Matthew Estes
It’s Wednesday, June 1, 2016, and it’s time I turned over a new leaf. I have fought through grad school, and I have emerged victorious. The long-nights of writing, editing, re-writing, editing, re-re-writing, and then editing again are in the rear-view mirror. I can now explode into adulthood with a Master’s degree and the omnipresent sensation that I forgot to write a 50-page paper somewhere down the line. However, a quick glance at my transcript reveals that I am, indeed, finished. School is Concluded. Resolved. Consummated.