March 31st.
By March 31st, my National Board assemblage of analyzed, scrutinized, and pulverized entries, borne in a box and lathered in labels, must be stamped with the mark of the USPS or a private carrier. Then it will fly to some warehouse in Middle America, to be unpacked and dispersed to its evaluators, never to return.
By March 31st, I hope to kick this nasty, nasty cold.
By March 31st, I will have rounded out the debate season, with two national qualifiers and two state tournaments done and done, leaving only one free weekend between now and then. By "free," I mean "free to fill with National Board completion-type activities."
By March 31st, I will repeat daily, If I don't pass this time, I can live with myself. I will not believe this.
By March 31st, I'll have turned 29, passed the four-year anniversary of dating my wife, visited family for Easter, seen the end of my dad's tenure in Elma, witnessed the coming of spring, finished The Odyssey again, reached my 3,000th post, and added sixteen new gray hairs, but only in my beard.
By March 31st, I will be thoroughly insane.
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