Looking over the transcripts is sombering. Failures, successes, places and people all blur into a line or two of text. Clustered together under shaded bars, with GPA, letter grades, numbers, they become entire worlds I've lost/gained. A. B. C. (W). F? 13, 15, look, a 16 credit semester there. They smell like soap, muted fustration, paper, dust, something like alcohol and bad food. And they're mine all mine.
125 credits in a month. Taking nine more. The last three so I'm still a full-time student. That means I can work on my own stuff, and maybe pry in a job. It took about seven years, but I'm going to be living independantly, post-college, a college graduate that graduated from college. Provided I don't mess up, of course.
