It’s finals week here on campus, and the library looks like an emergency shelter. Sleepers all over the floor. Garbage cans overflowing. A lone box of tissues sitting in front of a toilet. 

The last time I went through finals as a student was almost twenty years ago, and all I remember is throwing. Throwing my linguistics book across the study room in frustration and surrender. One of my fraternity brothers returning from an exam and chucking his books into the blazing fireplace. And at the end of the week, all of us climbing to the roof with some half-broken stuff–microwaves, box fans, a dead TV–and hurling it down to the parking lot like a bunch of profane Moseses. 

In our house, this was an end-of-semester tradition. Inventively, we called it “Roof Toss.” 

Idiotic? Yes. Performative? Absolutely. Cathartic? Like you wouldn’t believe. 

On my last roof toss, someone filled an empty aquarium with moths. When that thing hit the asphalt, the glass tank exploded, and moths flew out in crazy directions. 

It was impressive, but not as impressive as we’d hoped. We forced a chuckle, then began the long climb down. Commencement wasn’t until a week later, but really, that was the day I graduated.