Quick note as I try to write the final paper of my undergraduate career.

I’m a doodler. Since middle school, I’ve always drawn in the margins — when I was younger, it was mostly faces, but it gradually progressed to just eyes. Perfect, feminine eyes shaped like teardrops with a flourish of lashes at the end. I always did them the same way.

And I haven’t stopped. In fact, there’s an eye on the Beirut table at 87, and I realized that I must have drawn it a few weeks later or so, since I don’t remember doing it — but that’s one of my eyes!

Yeah, so now, I’m looking through my notes on comedy. During my final class, I haphazardly drew an eye, and it anchors the top of the page. I didn’t have many classes this semester, so I didn’t take notes often, and the only other real class I had was so note-filled that I never stopped writing long enough to draw.

Looking at it now, I realize that this is THE LAST EYE.

Forget the last Spam Jam, the last Pops concert, the last exam, the last time I walk into a classroom and sit down. Seeing the last eye fills me with such a sad feeling, I can feel it underneath my skull.

This is it.

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