You know, how when you’re young everyone tells you to go to college, how much fun it’ll be, how much you’ll learn, how you’ll set yourself up for life? You probably have said that to someone my age, and probably had it said to you when you were my age. I would like to pose the question to you, how did I end up here? The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as they say, and I guess that’s how I ended up here.
I am here. Here is the library. It’s almost midnight. I should be working on yet another paper (my third in a week, not due till Wednesday, thankfully), but I’m writing this instead. I’m up to my elbows in work, with two exams next week, three the week after, and two research papers to write. I have been exiled from my room, where I could be typing this, snug in my snug bed, because my roommate is having sex. (To much information, maybe, but it’s late, my inhibitions are low.) I am surrounded by stacks of dusty books, (a situation that is losing its charm fast). The dead bugs on the window sill are my only friends. I’m wound so tight that I might snap here really, really soon.
I had this Snickers cheese cake after dinner (I had a salad, I’m okay), so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice. Plus I had dinner with this amazing person I haven’t talked to in almost a year. I’m also listening to A Prairie Home Companion while I write this. I’ve got a sweater (at home) that is close to being finished. I left it there, I can’t handle steeks and graphs and percentages during the end of the semester, and I didn’t want to cart it back home. (And yes I know it is confusing that I use home to refer to both Wadsworth (where my parents live) and Kent, but they both have a lot of home-y aspects to them. I feel more myself here than Wadsworth, but my parents still live in the house I was raised in, so that means a lot too.) I also was just elected Secretary for the English Club, which is good, considering that I am an English major.
I know that I’ve got a really good life here though. I am confident of that. I am well fed. I am studying what I love. I am grateful for the chance to do this. And most times, I love it. I really do. The mornings with the sun rising beyond the trees in the distance, the fact that so many people here know things and can hold an intelligent conversation that doesn’t reference guns, children, or God. The trees that are just starting to flower, and the daffodils that are planted all around the May fourth area (I find that fitting. Daffodils are very peaceful flowers. And there is a bower of them!)
However, it’s nights like this when I just feel like giving up. Not on college, not even necessarily on life, but just in general. I don’t know how to explain it, but if you’ve felt it, you understand it. It’s dark outside, the wind is howling, and I’m just ready to be done. But I can’t be. I’ve got work to do, things to learn, and a life to live. And it will go on, and when I wake up tomorrow, all this will be in the past, and I will look toward the future. It’s hard to do that though, when your eyes are bleary, you either want sex, sleep, or to punch someone in the face, and the Japanese kid at the next table has been looking at you strangely for the past hour.
I didn’t intend for this post to be all sad and whiny. I hate that I’m sad and whiny. I always tried to be like a combination of Garrison Keillor and Jane Austen — witty, funny, artful, and charming. They weren’t always like that though, they had their moments too. Maybe it was because they are from different times (Even though Garrison and I are both alive, we still have a severe generation gap considering that he is in his seventies.) they didn’t share every emotion. Trust me, I am from the generation of sharing — we will spew any emotion if we think it will give us a slight amount of attention. Not that I am trying to do that. With my small (but lovely) readership I would certainly be barking up the wrong tree. There is more to my life than knitting, reading, and shenanigans, and while I typically try not to pour that here, I feel the need for an outlet, and I left my diary back at the dorm room.
It doesn’t help that even though I am really ready for this semester to be over, I really, really am dreading the thought of spending the next few months at home.
Oh dear, I’ve become one of those whiny college students that no one likes. “Oh, life’s so hard. I’m so busy. Wah, wah, wah,” Someone smack me the next time you see me.
(Please don’t really.)