It’s a quarter past midnight. There are about a million jumbled thoughts racing through my scrambled mind, but one common theme interconnects them all: I am completely, utterly, devastatingly unprepared for my chemistry test tomorrow. I can’t tell the difference between an alkene and an alkane, and I haven’t even gotten around to studying NMRs yet.
There’s a certain gut feeling you get in situations like this. It’s a taunting, tiny, yet deafening voice circling the back of your head, whispering “you’re screwed” over and over again; it’s a sinking feeling in your stomach you get when you’re almost to the drop of the roller coaster, like you know the worst is coming and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Life is a highway, and I was about to crash.
A quick Google search defines “exotic” as either “originating in or characteristic of a distant foreign country” or “an exotic plant or animal.”
I’ve been called this word so many times that I’ve stopped bothering to keep track: by Metro catcallers, by Santa Monica street performers, by my sixth-grade history teacher, by my father’s 60-year-old business clients.