January
I started smoking weed every day, usually in the evenings to help me fall asleep. My college classes were from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. After lunch, I’d go to the “gay beaches” to get high. I enjoyed the sun, the sea, and a few hours of freedom before my 4 p.m. classes. I’d drive to college half-stoned, my eyes still red and heavy. I’d walk into the lecture hall, and the professor would look at me strangely, as if he knew I was high. I’d stare down at my notebook, hoping he wouldn’t report me to the dean or someone else. After class, I’d have dinner and then go to the men’s restroom. I’d lock myself in a stall, lower the toilet seat and lid, and sit down. Then, I’d take out my rolling papers, filters, a cigarette, and my weed. I’d calmly roll a joint, preparing myself to meet up with Stacey. I finished rolling, put the joint and my rolling supplies in my bag, “flushed” the toilet, and went outside.
I met Stacey, and she asked me how often I smoked. I told her I did it every day, more than once if possible, or at least once before bed. I needed my daily dose of weed; I had to “just smell it and taste it a little.” She told me that’s how addicts think, and she was right. This sparked a fight, and she then ordered me to stick to a strict daily routine: home-college-home, with no deviations. I got angry and went home.
Stacey was about to enroll in college and chose a maritime program. I became her math tutor, and thanks to my help, she passed the state graduation exam and got into the university. Once she started college, she struggled with math again, so I helped her out once more. Her math courses were easier than mine, since I was studying to become an engineer, so it was easy for me to help her, and I felt good about it. She passed her math tests and advanced to her second year of college, while I had to repeat my first year because I had failed some subjects, ironically, including mathematics.
March
I was still wearing the underwear my dad had bought me in Pakistan. However, it was getting old and had a small hole under my testicles. One day, the hole ripped bigger, and my testicles were hanging out, getting pinched as I walked. When I got home and changed, I noticed that my left testicle was a little bigger than usual and had dilated blood vessels. It felt like I was touching a bag of worms. I went to the doctor, and he told me I had a varicocele (varicose veins in the scrotum). He ordered X-rays and a semen analysis.
April
I went to get an X-ray of my testicles and found myself sexually attracted to the female doctor who was about to perform the procedure. I walked into her office, and she told me to lie down on the bed and lower my pants. I was hoping my penis would become erect, but it remained flaccid.
I went to the semen analysis room, and the nurse gave me a small container for the sample. I went to another room equipped with comfortable chairs, pornographic magazines, and a toilet. I looked at some of the magazines, but after watching so much video pornography, it was like looking at a blank wall. I ejaculated into the container and took the sample to the nurse. The next day, I picked up my results.
They showed a lower-than-normal count of live sperm.
During a follow-up appointment, the doctor told me that the varicocele wasn’t dangerous, but it could affect my fertility. He recommended surgery to improve my chances of having children, but I declined.
July
Over the summer, I had to study to retake the math courses I’d failed both this year and the previous year. The subject was divided into two parts – Mathematics 1 and Mathematics 2 – covering infinitesimal calculus (derivatives and integrals). Each exam was in three parts. First, we had a problem-solving test, followed by a separate theory test. Finally, we each had an individual oral exam with the professor. She was a bit eccentric, and I thought her requirements were excessive, but it made sense that she demanded so much, as future civil engineers needed all that knowledge.
I passed Math 1 relatively easily and then had to study for Math 2. I passed both the problem-solving and theory tests. One day, I had my individual oral exam scheduled for 1 p.m. at the college. The exam began, and some parts went well, while others didn’t.
The professor complimented my handwriting, saying it looked like it was written by a woman. We talked as she questioned me. Then came the integral problem that I hadn’t solved correctly on the written test. She told me I had to solve it again or I would fail the exam. Somehow, I managed to solve it, and even she was impressed with how I arrived at the correct answer.
The exam continued, and we took a break later. It was already 3 p.m., and she was known for conducting lengthy exams. The test resumed, and she continued to chat a bit. At one point, she asked me where I was from. This wasn’t the usual question about my birthplace, but rather about my grandfather’s birthplace—my ancestral origin. I told her I was from a village west of Drniš. Since people with my last name were mostly from villages south of Drniš, she jokingly suggested that my family was probably “degenerate” because of this discrepancy.
I was shocked that someone in academia would make such a statement. I just smiled, and the exam continued. She talked a bit more, and then I realized I could report her to the dean if I didn’t pass. I even considered some kind of blackmail.
However, it wasn’t necessary. Around 7 p.m., the exam finally ended, and I passed Mathematics 2, which meant I also passed my first year of college. I went home and shared the news with everyone, and they were all happy.
@Limbo 
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