Your Dorm Room On The First Day Of The School Year Vs. On The Last (Photos)
There is no creature on this planet more optimistic than a college student on his or her first day of the year.
Despite all evidence to the contrary -- like the fact that their old dorm room developed its own new strain of a poisonous mold last year -- college students believe with every ounce of their tiny, happy hearts that their minuscule new room will definitely look and feel like Martha Stewart's perfectly furnished jail cell all year round.
Unfortunately, the truth of the matter is that by the end of the year, their room will look a lot more like the intestines of someone who went to Taco Bell eight hours ago and is now drinking lukewarm milk while sitting in a hot tub in the sun.
On the first day of a new semester, college students suddenly think they are Martha Stewart on the first day of fall...
Throw pillows are to sleeping as clothes are to sex: they only get in the way and belong all over the floor.
...and on the last day of the year, they suddenly feel like George W. Bush on the last day of his presidency.
"Okay, um, I'm gonna go home and paint sad pictures of dogs. Someone figure out this mess."
"Back to school" shopping should actually be called "expensive things I will soon destroy or lose" shopping.
The only reason to drink green juice is if you are going to fight Superman soon and need to drink a glass of liquid kryptonite so you can spit on that nerd to win. That's literally the only reason. Green juice tastes like a swamp's anus.
On the last day of school, your desk is the most depressing thing in the world -- looking at it is like looking at a grown man being yelled at by a barista in front of his son.
I wonder if Miley Cyrus has an assistant whose only job is to make sure her tongue doesn't get too dry from overexposure to the elements. If so, I know a really sad friend with no self-esteem who would love that job. Shout out to John!
When you get the room, it is always in perfect, glorious condition. It's like a beautiful, fresh piece of white paper, full of possibility.
You could use that paper to make an origami swan or write a love letter to your future spouse or deftly sketch a portrait of Gandhi.
But by the end of the year, that piece of paper is wrinkled, smells like beer, and has a hundred dicks drawn all over it.
One day an alien anthropologist is going to come to this planet and walk into a dorm room (after we all die from sleeping too close to our cell phones or whatever), look under a college student's bed, and immediately get on his spaceship and go home.