By Friday I'll probably be a Jewish Studies major.

Oh, goodness. Between the exhaustion, the stress-eating, the unexplained pimples, and my unbelievable ability to cry at the drop of a hat, I'm either pregnant or it's finals week.

As the pregnancy thing would require either some spastic genetic mutation or the second coming of Christ (unlikely, given my propensity to swear), it's probably just finals.

I seriously do not know what is wrong with me. I'm just a mess. I mean, I get the being sad about classes I like. No, the end of Ireland and Israel probably didn't need to invoke tears and queries as to whether the professor needed a babysitter this summer, but whatever, I loved those classes. And I loved art history, and Dr. Counts, so yeah, that makes sense.

But methods? I freaking hate methods. I hate that damn class. The day the professor got food poisoning and had to cancel was the happiest Monday I had all semester. But when we finished up today I wanted to cry. Seriously. I was this close to adding his section of 600.

I think the worst was when I got the mass e-mail from the former director of undergraduate studies in history announcing his replacement. Let me set this up for you. I don't know this guy. I met him once, and our entire conversation was pretty much, "So you want to be a history major?" "Yes." "You have at least a 2.5 GPA?" "Yes." "Okay. Where's the form?" Not exactly a long and storied relationship. And even if it was, he's not going anywhere. The position of director rotates through the staff, a different faculty member is the director every year. The new director is a guy I actually do know. He's my thesis advisor. He lent me one of his books. We've had a heart-to-heart about John Paul II.

So. To recap. I don't know Old Guy. Old Guy's not really going anywhere. I know New Guy. The entire position is basically a person to sign declaration of major forms. But when Old Guy sent out that e-mail saying that he was forwarding us New Guy's information and that he was honored to have served us this year? I'm not going to lie, my eyes started to water.

Okay. I seriously need a drink. Or a nap. Or some prescription drugs. Or all three.

BECAUSE I JUST CRIED OVER AN AMBIGUOUSLY GAY MIDDLE-AGED HISTORIAN WHO HAS HOMOSEXUAL BONDAGE POSTERS UP IN HIS OFFICE. But he said I'd be an asset to any MA program. THIS ISN'T NORMAL.

(The posters are alleged. I've never seen them. But I can kind of believe it.)