The burden of a degree

The more classes I attend, the more I feel out of place, like living in a village where the language feels foreign.

The first thing I hear in the morning is an annoying shrill on my phone. Then something more unpleasant—my yawns and curses—takes over as I straighten up, rubbing my eyes. The alarm is always set for four in the morning, and each day, by 4:03, I’m staring at myself in the mirror above my bathroom sink. My hair is always messy, and I try to coif it with my right hand as my mind speculates about the day ahead—the jogging to the bus stop, a senior lady already there, anxiously looking at the watch tethered to her slender wrist. And then, a tiresome trip along the bumpy roads, exacerbated by the gossiping of ostentatious girls—four of them—who I have grown to dislike without even interacting much.