Ah, course registration—where the campus collectively loses its mind, each student fighting their way to secure that golden “perfect” schedule. Every semester, this ritual returns and every semester, chaos ensues. The campus is transformed into a battleground, with everyone vying for those elusive “good” courses and seniors smugly strolling through it all as though they’re above the fray. Spoiler alert: they are.

Let’s break down the drama. First-years are practically sweating over whether they’ll even get a decent course load. Armed with the Course Catalog and Plan Ahead, they’re dissecting every possible schedule combination like they’re planning a military operation. You see them huddled over their laptops for hours, trying to unlock the secret formula that will let them dodge 8 a.m. classes, secure classes with popular professors and magically avoid conflicts. But deep down, we all know they’re chasing an impossible dream: a “perfect” schedule doesn’t exist.

Meanwhile, seniors are sitting back, underloading courses and sipping their coffee as they watch the chaos. After all, they’ve already put in their time and mastered the game. They know the truth: it’s not about getting every class you want—it’s about survival. First-years and sophomores are too new to understand this yet, so instead, they’re out there asking seniors for advice, hoping for insider tips and maybe even negotiating with professors to “reserve a spot.” Hint: those professors aren’t budging.

And then there’s Rate My Professor—the unofficial Bible of registration season. Currently, this app might be more visited than TikTok on a Friday night. Students scroll through reviews like they’re studying for the SATs, parsing every word to decide if Professor Smith’s “harsh grading” comment means a B+ or a guaranteed fail. People take these reviews more seriously than their own well-being, ignoring the fact that half the reviews were probably written in the heat of a post-exam meltdown. But hey, who needs to actually meet the professor when you’ve got “chili pepper” ratings to rely on, right?

But let’s talk about those cursed by the alphabet. Students whose last names land them at the bottom of the registration list are practically tearing their hair out. Some even contemplate the merits of legally changing their names to something earlier in the alphabet. After all, when it’s your turn to register, that coveted “Intro to Behavioral Economics” class has long been filled up. Every time they check the course catalog, it’s like watching the stock market crash, with seats disappearing as quickly as crypto in a bear market. Except, instead of financial ruin, the stakes here are even worse—missing out on that “easy A” class.

Meanwhile, professors, bless their souls, are being buried under a mountain of advising appointments. Their schedules are so packed you’d think they’re running a free clinic. Each student wants tailored guidance, desperate to squeeze out any last-minute loopholes for course access. These professors, who have their own classes and grading, are running on fumes. Some even start looking visibly worn out in their own lectures. If their advice sessions seem rushed, don’t take it personally—they’ve just been advising nonstop since 8 a.m.

With registration closing soon, we can all hope the collective trauma will subside, at least for a while. If you see someone fuming in the dining hall next week, avoid the temptation to ask if they got their courses—chances are, they didn’t and you’ll only be reopening the wound. After all, we’re all in this registration mess together… at least until it starts all over again next semester.

And as for me? Consider this a fair warning to everyone with their eyes on Intro to Behavioral Economics and Intermediate Political Economy: back off. I’ve got my sights set and I am prepared to fight.