For you crap givers in college, it’s that time of the semester again! When the knock on your door by your RA reminding you of this dreaded event is like Effie Trinket gathering you for the reaping. When you are thrown into a pit of ravenous young adults fighting for your own survival, with no support but that of your laptop and your ability to press buttons fast enough. That’s right, it’s time for spring registration.

Registration is the closest thing I can think of to a literal Hunger Games. For those of you who aren’t from crown nebula, the concept of the Hunger Games is 24 teenagers being thrown into an arena by their government, forced to brutally kill each other until only one is left. The lone victor. I know–glamourous. Well, registering for college courses is basically the Hunger Games, except in the Hunger Games, you at least get the minuscule hope of survival in the end. With registration, there is no such thing as survival. Depending on yours, some majors have it harder than others. Lucky for me, Communications is one of the most popular, with class slots filling up within the first 30 seconds of registration. Registration is the only time of year I ever find myself jealous of science majors. So, naturally, the claws have to come out so I can get the classes I want.

With overrides being your lifeboat, the days leading up to registration is like buying a ticket on the Titanic when you know full well that it’s going to sink. You can sit there, making schedule after schedule, mapping out every possible outcome of what classes you’ll get, and classes you won’t get, until you get the schedule you want. Like Cato came at Katniss from every direction, The morning of registration will have you quarreling in a corner using the little will to live you have left to beg your advisor for mercy. College is great! 

For those of you who don’t know, my school is on the small side. So for that reason, I’m already at lower odds, like Rue against a brutal pack of careers. Unlike large schools, here, there is no such thing as 100+ kids in a class. So when those 30 available spots fill up in the first .00009 seconds of registration, you are left with two options. You can: A) Cry, and then proceed to fill out a form begging to be put in the class so you don’t have to completely start over the next for years of your life, or B) Cry. At Marist, the infamous Registrar’s Office is like sponsors in the Hunger Games. they send down supplies that will help you achieve the bare minimal of survival. So when you’re parents give you that speech telling you college has all the possible resources you will need to succeed, what they’re really saying is that when you’re in desperate need of a knife, college graciously dishes out it’s finest spoon. 

The morning of registration is usually like when the first gong goes off signaling the start of The Games. Everyone rushes to the Cornucopia, well aware of what they HAVE to HAVE. So, naturally, the morning of registration ends up like the encounters at the Cornucopia. Nothing short of a bloodbath. When it comes to punching in that CRN number, it’s like when a tribute steps off the platform before the start of the games—one wrong move and you’re blown into bits. 

In case you haven’t wondered yet, I’m a little behind in preparation because instead of mapping out my classes, I sat here and wrote this blog (What can I say, I have to give the people what they want). So if you don’t hear from me within the next week or so, don’t be alarmed. I’ll be preparing for registration, and you’re casual fight to the death. 

Thanks for giving a crap, and, of course, to all the college crap givers…….