When I was a kid, the end of the school year was brutal. I was ready for a languid, lazy summer by mid-April. My brain, which generally fired on all 4 cylinders, was limping toward the finish line on a flat tire and a crappy suspension. The days were warm and my feet were sore. The idea of finishing my diorama on Jamestown was more torturous than being trapped in a pit of snakes.
Turns out I still feel that way.
The moms who drove our carpool back then must have sensed this fatigue because at least once a week that last month of school, one of them would stop on the way home and get us Slurpees. Everyone had a favorite concoction. Mine was a Coke Slurpee with a thin layer of cherry in the middle.