At the end of my sophomore year, I reviewed and cried. At three o'clock in the middle of the night, there is still a book on discrete mathematics that I haven't finished because I have to take the exam at seven fifty in the morning. I cried while reviewing, and wiped my tears to brush the questions. The scene was terrible.
The exam week is divided into day and night, and stays up until the next day.
This time, I got sick in the final exam. I endured the pain, endured the needle given to me by the nurse, and recited the main points of the clinic. Every cough is sad and every dose of medicine is refreshing. Even if I am sick to death, I still stick to the old tradition-staying up late to review until I finish the exam and then come back to sleep the next day.
This feeling can really show efficiency, and this pressure can even make me feel full of pleasure. Driving me to the point where I think it's a waste of time to go to the bathroom.
Fortunately, the effect is good, and now I have recovered from my serious illness. I hope it won't be so exciting next semester. I can't stand it if I come again a few times. When I was in college, I took the exam at eight o'clock the next morning, and borrowed notes from the dormitory across the hall at six o'clock the night before, and took them to the copy agency for copying.
Then I called the dormitory next door at night to play poker and shouted: ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah.
The lights went out at eleven o'clock and the party was over. I lit a small desk lamp and looked at the copied materials.