*Posted as part of the Sprite’s Keeper weekly Spin Cycle*

Remember when you were in school?

Remember how, after months of attending lectures, and meeting with belittling professors, and receiving poorer grades than you deserved, and basically getting the life sucked out of you one Tuesday/Thursday at a time…after months of dealing with that rubbish, you started to look sort of gaunt and run-down?

Well, just in case you forgot, I have documented the progression (or should I say, “digression” [or should I say, “slow and torturous death by higher education”]) for you, my readers.  Every few mornings this semester, while waiting for my first class to start, I’ve opened my laptop and snapped a picture of myself.  I don’t know what has compelled me to do it, except maybe a spiritual inspiration that I haven’t quite understood until just this moment.  No matter the reason, the point is that I now have proof—photographic evidence—that the pursuit of higher knowledge is killing me, one class at a time.

My Marked Progression/Digression Through School

Phase 1: Months before classes started, my eyebrows were maintained.  My face was glowing, and my radiant skin was totally blemish-free.  Those were friendlier days.The Look: Carefree and Happy

Phase 2: A month into the semester, I was still putting forth some effort.  At least I was wearing makeup, which was a sure sign They hadn’t beat me yet.  By the looks of it, I was optimistic enough to wake up early, shower, and actually style my hair with volumising product. Still no sign of stress-pimples, but my eyebrows were starting to look a little mangy.  There was a semblance of a little smile, though—I was obviously still in the game.

The Look: Hopeful

Phase 3: Hmmm…  I obviously couldn’t be bothered to wash my hair anymore.  My bangs were pulled back, and not in a cutesy sporty way.  I was starting to resemble the drug-dealing days of my past, which was a realisation I must have planned to bury under dark black eyeliner.  At least the makeup was still present, and covering a pimple-free face.  Still, I was not even trying to smile anymore, which doesn’t bode well…

The Look: In Denial

Phase 4: Weeks later, college finally taught me something—I got smart and bought a hat to cover the craziness.  By then, spots of red were starting to creep through my foundation and powder, but the pimples were mostly controllable.  Eyebrows seem bushier, but there was evidence of attempted makeup and hair-care.  Nevertheless, something in my eyes looked a little despondent.

The Look: Starting to Wonder

Phase 5: Now, my hair hasn’t been washed since last month, and I don’t bother with trying to manage it anymore.  Instead, I give it a few tosses, decide it’s a lost cause, and bust out the Pollyanna braids.  {Plus a hat, because I have a feeling it’s going to be one of those days.}  I’m not wearing makeup because I’m fresh out (must’ve spent too much trying to pretend everything was okay during the last two phases).  But really, even if I had any makeup to apply, does this look like the face of someone who’s about to use it?

The Look: Haggard

This how I walked around campus for 12 hours yesterday.  I’m pretty much a ghost these days—a shadow of my former self.  I float from class to class with a vacant look in my eyes:

I look haunted, and I probably am.  Haunted by the ghost of how I used to be, that is.

Since I don’t have makeup to hide the aftermath, I don’t even bother to pop my pimples anymore—not even the whitehead volcanic ones.

And that, my friends…

…that’s when you know it’s not getting bad…

…but it’s already gotten there.

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