freshman vs. sophomore vs. junior aka I am scatterbrained.

I was poking around on my computer because I’m nosy even to myself and I found this document that I wrote a year ago after coming home from freshman year at college, never finished, and promptly forgot about until today. I remember now vaguely writing it for some purpose–but exactly what, is lost. I thought it was interesting to see how past me thought versus present me, so I’ve posted what I originally wrote followed by an edit on how things have changed.  

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This is the cleanest my room ever was freshman year. It was taken the day I moved in.

It’s weird to see that your life can be packed away. I stand in my room, surrounded by boxes, crates, baskets. But they don’t hold just things. My life is more than a couple of sundresses, a copy of Modern European History and my favorite, green dotted sheets. Some people say things are just things. But I say they hold memories.

And as I return home from my first year at college, unpacking my last year’s life, I unpack the time I couldn’t get the washer to work and made a new friend, the time I lost my head and completely forgot where my class was on the last week of classes and was almost late for the final exam, and all those times my friends and I sat in confusion as our comparative literature professor adapted every single story to relate to Edgar Allen Poe and the ghost of Jesus Christ.

Things change; people change. But after a year of name games, awkward get-togethers, and repetitive ice breakers, a year of realizing my actions were actually beginning to matter, and a year of perpetual identity crisis, on the surface, I still feel like a high school senior who came to college expecting everything! to change, who came as a biochemistry major and switched immediately to history, then dabbled in political science, international politics, and then nutrition.  I still don’t know what I want out of life, I still don’t know how to balance what I love and what is practical, and I really have no idea where I’ll be in three years.

But then I think about how my friendships have changed. How some have simply strengthened from a year’s distance, even from the other side of the country and how others, once just a walk around the corner, have inexplicably turned to dust.  How an older friend told me that while we may sneak in a Skype date here, a phone call there, so many of my friends will end up strangers in a few years—that even we will probably not speak once he’s graduated —but that’s okay, because you’ll make new friends in college. And I realize that some of that, at least, is true.

AJhdflisuhf

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Edited to maintain current relevancy

This is closer to what my room looked like both years.

It’s weird to see that your life can be packed away. I stand in my room, surrounded by boxes, crates, baskets. But they don’t hold just things. My life is more than a couple of sundresses, a copy of Modern European History Chemistry: The Central Science and my favorite, green dotted sheets. Some people say things are just things. But I say they hold memories.

And as I return home from my first second year at college, unpacking my last year’s life, I unpack the time I couldn’t get the washer to work and made a new friend my friends surprised me with a dancing cat on my birthday (don’t ask), the time I lost my head and completely forgot where my class was on the last week of classes and was almost late for the final exam, I still couldn’t find that dang building because I swear to god it moves around, and all those times my friends and I sat in confusion as our comparative literature professor adapted every single story to relate to Edgar Allen Poe and the ghost of Jesus Christ  sat in depression after news of the Penn State sex scandal broke; then again, and again, and again–each revelation more horrifying and disillusioning than the previous.

Things change; people change. But after a year of name games, awkward get-togethers, and repetitive ice breakers, a year of realizing my actions were actually beginning to matter, and a year of perpetual identity crisis (all still true), on the surface, I still feel like a graduated high school senior who came to college expecting everything! to change, who came as a biochemistry major and switched immediately to history, then dabbled in political science, international politics, and then nutrition and debating between nutrition pre-med and nutrition applied sciences, and then hospitality and dietetics, oh god.  I still don’t know what I want out of life, I still don’t know how to balance what I love and what is practical, and I really have no idea where I’ll be in three two years. (Okay, at least I have some idea now)

But then I think about how my friendships have changed. How some have simply strengthened from a year’s distance, even from the other side of the country and how others, once just a walk around the corner, have inexplicably turned to dust.  How an older friend told me that while we may sneak in a Skype date here, a phone call there, so many of my friends will end up strangers in a few years—that even we will probably not speak once he’s graduated (we don’t), but that’s okay, because you’ll make new friends in college. And I realize that some of that, at least, is true. (still true)

AJhdflisuhf

Jkadfnvkzjhdbfvlzjdbcnj (My thoughts exactly).

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I’m not exactly sure why I wrote this other than maybe I wanted to have some sort of reflection on my first year at college. All I remember is that something a friend said inspired the beginning. I realize that it’s quite incomplete, jumps from idea to idea, and lacks any sort of central message—but let’s be real–what else can you expect from a reflection on my life?

Maybe I’ll rewrite it after junior year, or hopefully at least by senior year it’ll have an ending…but knowing me I’ll probably be too lazy to write it.

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I’d clearly make it as an international spy

People are always asking me about my roommates and honestly, I can’t tell you a thing about them. Seriously, I don’t even know their last names, or even how to spell their first names.

I don’t even have their numbers even though I offered them mine and they took it…is that like roommate rejection? I didn’t think it’d be that big of a problem until coincidentally enough today on the bus to work I began to wonder if I turned the stove off. Cue the inner panic that’s rapidly mounting when I realize our fire alarm is of course disabled and oh god I’m gonna come home in 8 hours to a whole apartment complex of smoke and ash and why do I not have my roommate’s number?? Don’t worry y’all. The apartment’s fine.

But anyway. One of the things my roommates like to do is lock the deadbolt on the door so I can’t get in even if I have the key. Normally this is okay because I just ring the doorbell and they open the door and we’ll exchange our one word of the day (“Hi,” or sometimes even “hey!”), unless their friend is there in which case then we can start talking. Is it weird that I’m better friends with their friend than I am with them?

Sidetracked again–the bus rounds the corner on the ride home and I see my lovely, lovely apartment quad standing there so beautifully unscathed by any sort of fire that would result from a silly, careless girl who left the stove on. and then because my brain hates me I begin to wonder if maybe my roommate is dead (too morbid?) from carbon monoxide poisoning and maybe it’s one of those things where the fire is contained and I’ll open the door and BOOM, you know like in the movies? Does this even make logical sense? Someone let me know.

I feel the door, and it’s not hot–good sign, right? It won’t open though, because it’s been locked again from the inside since I left. Initial joy that my roommate is not dead inside is quickly replaced with annoyance after waiting for about 30 seconds…she’s taking a nap and can’t hear the doorbell.

I scout the area. The balcony railing looks climbable, even though it comes up to my chin and there’s only one notch like thing for me to put my feet on. But I watch too much Jason Bourne and I think I can do it.

The chair we keep out there is on the other side, which slightly annoys me. It’d be so much more convenient because then I can just step down efficiently and gracefully instead of potentially falling down. A few jumps and a couple of squashed bushes later (sorry) though, I’M IN (albeit in a very inefficient and ungraceful way).

Because I then realize I could have just climbed the other side to use the chair.

and then I walked around high off the caffeine fumes

What I wore to work today, sorta:

Image

This is my “I am Unamused face.”

You might be wondering why I would ever want to wear anything other than my requisite red or blue polo shirt. I do not have an answer for this.

You might also be wondering why I am so very, very unamused. I do have an answer for this! But first, there are a couple of things you should know:

  1. The dining hall provides free, surprisingly good coffee all day.
  2. I like free things.
  3. The automatic doors, while heavy and cumbersome to open by hand, could cause one to grow grey hairs waiting for it to open by itself.
  4. For some reason, today there were no lids for the coffee cups.
  5. The guy walking behind us decided he was no match for the unwieldy door already being propped open by two 20 year old girls.

You may already have a general idea of what happens next. If your idea is that as we walked through one of the double doors, the guy behind us decided he could not slip through the ALREADY OPEN DOOR but needed to push the automatic door button, prompting the second door to open without warning on my fellow intern, spilling her un-lidded cup of coffee all down her shirt–well, then you are wrong.

Because that happened to me.

Conclusion: either the uniform gods were smiling down on me by willing me to wear a flowered blouse on which a whole cup of spilled coffee would never show, or they were showing me their wrath at my abandonment of the polo shirts.

Also, I believe my unamused face could also double as my bored face. This is not bad acting; this  is  multi-tasking.

cliché on cliché on cliché

The other day I told someone I was 19 years old.

“No-No. 20.” I blurted out thirty seconds later. “Sorry, I’m twenty.”

It seemed silly then; insignificant at the time, like forgetting to put sugar in my coffee or pushing the floor button in an elevator. Because more often than not the stranger who gets on next will stand there with me a moment until finally reaching over to press “G.” I’ll laugh sheepishly, but it’ll happen again the next day. So I’m still getting used to not being a teenager anymore, you see. I’ve only been twenty for 42 days.

Twenty.

Sometimes I feel like (warning: cliché) my life is over before its even begun. Graduate. Get a job. Work eight hours a day, go home, eat, sleep, repeat. In a blink of an eye, I’ll be 50.

Other times I feel like (warning: cliché) my life is just beginning. Because I’m twenty goddamn it and everyone knows that’s the age that you–find yourself! Discover what you were truly meant to be! Change the world!

Remember when we were young and we dreamed as big as we wanted because everyone knew we’d grow out of it some day? I told people I’d be the first female president of the United States.  Then I went to school and realized that politics just depress me. I also dreamed of being a Neopets millionare, and when I finally achieved that, I forgot my password. Every so often I think about my poor, starving meerca and the 176 neopoints I’m losing every day in bank interest. Now I wonder if he’s still alive. Can neopets die?

Somewhere along the way I became half-hearted, content. I lost my passion for—for what? Living? Life? Dreaming? Have my own musings really become such a cliché?

It’s okay though. It’s only been 42 days. For now.

-Edit- How ironic that after a re-read I’ve noticed that telling myself “It’s only been 42 days” only reinforces my  passiveness.