The Five Stages of Exam Grief


Settle down, you pretentious PSYC 100 fucks who think you have everyone figured out because you know what the anal stage is. This isn’t your parents’ Kübler-Ross model.. That’s stupid and useless. I present to you the Squidward Model: the five stages of exam grief. It’s a new, sexy and relatable description of what it’s like to go through exams. The models goes as follows:


Hold on a darn hot minute? Didn’t the term just begin? Is it Week 12? How can it be Week 12? Alas, the past three months have been a coked up, blue-balling blur. It’s not entirely outrageous to suggest that maybe you were cryogenically frozen. How did all this time pass? How could someone not notice 12 weeks go by?

You scan your body just in case you left yourself tattoo’d clues on yourself like Guy Pearce in Memento. God, you love that movie. You’ve watched it at least three times in the last 2 weeks.You dust off your computer and hesitantly type in your Moodle password. Course codes you’ve never seen in your life appear. “What the holy fuck is this?”, you say to yourself as click through the weeks of material. Responsibility thrusted upon you in a fashion that can only be compared to a guy finding out he fathered a 3 years old with a one night stand.

While you’re on Facebook, the new Underground photos show up in your newsfeed. No. How is this possible? You’re tagged in 83 of the last 500 Underground photos, not including the awkward background shots where your mouth is inexplicably open. Where did time go?


The accumulation of lost time and creeping realization that you’re going to grind hard has settled – and you’re fucking pissed. Your skin tints green and you begin to recount everyone and everything that’s led you astray from your academic track. Like 9/11, you’re positive distracting you was an inside job.

You blame your friends for inviting you to the Underground, knowing you can’t resist that sweet, sweet $3.50 drink special. Fuck them in and around their mouths. They know that once the music hits you, you lose bodily control and you can’t take responsibility for what you do under the influence of the dance.

Also, why the flying fuck would Netflix release season four of House of Cards at a part of the term where you should have been paying attention? You think this is a game, Kevin Spacey? You can shove that holy Emmy up your perfectly bleached ass. I know that Netflix has the power to do with House of Cards what they do with Orange is the New Black. Just release the shit in June and stop ruining lives.


Screaming and waving your fists at the sky like a senile old man can only get so much done. Ok, maybe your conundrum isn’t as bad as you think. Maybe all you need is a game plan. Things looked bad for OJ but look how it turned out for him! Simply motivational and maybe, just maybe, that light at the tunnel isn’t a train.

You break down all your obligations and you have a 13 days to learn 10 weeks of material for five different courses. Ok. You also need to get certain marks your exams to avoid having your grandmother cry publically at the Mandarin buffet again. Ok. You made a schedule and if you can pull off 4 hours of sleep a night. You can have your cake and eat it too! What the fuck does that mean? Wouldn’t it make more sense to say you can’t eat your cake and then have it? Shakespeare was a slippery motherfucker.


You sleep a heaping 13 hours the first day of your iron clad study schedule. The infeasibility of your exam plan hits you and you spiral into a Heath-Ledger-like, drug fueled depression. I’m kidding. There aren’t any drugs, you’re still on a university student budget. But you’re at least Heath-Ledger-sad, that you can say with confidence.

You look in the mirror and you see an aging piece of shit. 20 years old is suppose to be your prime and you’re not even that hot. Are your eyes a little too close or too far apart? You can’t tell from all the tears. You’re definitely not hot enough to be someone’s trophy wife. If anything, you feel like you’d only be sold if you were a cost-effective mail order bride without an picture attached.


Avoiding all your work, you read Friedrich Nietzsche’s Wikipedia page and embrace the principles of existentialism. We live a life where death is inevitable, and your shitty GPA isn’t going to change that fact. In the sheer vastness of the universe, you just simply don’t matter. Your existence barely means anything, so why should you get yourself worked up with trying to salvage your exams? You accept your new life working the Tuesday morning shift at the Plaza with your drug dealing spouse.