As spring arrives full steam ahead, so does an outbreak among the Class of 2022. It’s not the common cold or COVID-19; it’s something far more contagious and far less preventable: Senior Slump.

Seniors slouch over their desks, barely able to keep their eyes open for more than five minutes at a time. The amount of energy required to keep their eyes open is far too much after a sleepless night.

Seniors don’t sleep at night. They’ve become accustomed to late-night study crams, last-minute essays, and adding final touches on college apps. Even when seniors don’t have a mountain-high pile of work to complete, they forgo sleep. Sleep is the cousin of death. 

When seniors get dressed in the morning, they no longer scan their closets for trendy, Insta-worthy outfits. They now throw on pajama pants, and the Class of ‘22 sweatshirts they purchased to remind them of their escape. They don’t wear their sweatshirts proudly. No, they wear the sweats as a reminder of how close their freedom is. 

Seniors always have a drink with them—lattes, mochas, Red Bulls, Monsters, Yerba Mates, teas—but never water. If it doesn’t contain caffeine, it serves no purpose to the senior.

Seniors always have one earbud in, but they can no longer tell if music is playing. Their brains have become mush. They don’t keep their earbuds in for entertainment. It’s a self-defense mechanism to alert others they are not available for conversation. 

Seniors do not check their emails. They are flooded by thirsty messages from colleges, begging for their tuition money. These are not the colleges that seniors want to attend, they’ve put college applications far behind them, and they refuse to go back.  

Seniors do not remember what they have learned. They do not live in the past. They also do not live in the present: they live in the future. A future where they no longer have to wake up at 7 a.m. and drag themselves through seven and a half hours of bureaucratic purgatory. Instead, seniors crave a future where they wake up at 8 a.m., and drag themselves through seven and a half hours of bureaucratic purgatory, with the prospects of a killer party at the end of the week.