good, im glad cos i didnt write it for you
People love to ask about someone’s first year of college. How did freshman year go? Did you love it? Meet life-long friends? Attend any great parties? Kiss somebody cute? Finally swipe that v-card? Get wasted every weekend?
I always smile and say it was fine. Just fine. Laugh and let them draw their own conclusions, let them simmer in their make-believe world of happy endings.
Truth is, it was a shit show. Sure, lots of people enjoy themselves in college and really thrive. But I wasn’t one of those people. You really want to know how I remember it? I remember sleeping maybe four or five hours a night—maybe “dozing erratically” is a more apt description. I remember waking up at three in the morning, mind racing and heart pounding about a test tomorrow, a paper due next week, a group project next month that needed planning, what classes to take next semester, what internship I had to land two summers from now in order to climb the corporate ladder eight years down the road.
I guess you could say I also developed a sort of self-destructive behavior. Mind you, I wasn’t suicidal or anything like that, didn’t actually have a death wish. I just liked to test myself when crossing streets, see how close I could cut it when crossing on a red light with cars running 50 mph down black pavement. “Woah!” my friend would yell out, grabbing my arm to pull me bodily back from walking into oncoming traffic. “You know me—lack of self-preservation instinct,” I joked in an attempt to fend off the concerned look he had fixed on me. I could’ve made it, I thought privately. It’s the only moment I feel in control of my life, of anything.
I started throwing out flimsy excuses to my mother toward the end of the year, desperate to end phone calls home so that I could lock myself in the bathroom to cry about anything and everything. I cried because I had no idea what the fuck I wanted to major in. I cried because I always felt like I was simultaneously running out of time and saddled with too much time. I cried because I couldn’t land a quality internship. I cried because I wasn’t getting the grades I wanted, and if I was horrible at school—the one thing I ever felt I was decent at—, then what good was I for anything? I cried because everybody seemed to know where they were headed, and yet there I was, a pathetic ball sitting on a bathroom floor that likely hadn’t been cleaned for months, crying over what? Nothing that mattered in the “big picture.” People out there had it way worse than I did. So I cried because I looked in the mirror and saw someone who was pathetic enough to cry over petty problems that I should’ve been able to deal with.
"I don’t think I’m depressed or have an anxiety disorder," I would say to anybody willing to listen. "Nah, you definitely don’t," they would parrot back. Good, I would think, feeling reassured. You’re not crazy. Nobody thinks you’re going out of your mind.
So freshman year. I developed testing anxiety, my Tourettes flared up, OCD crept back in silently in the form of having to open and close doors multiple times until it felt right, and then I seemed to also acquire insomnia due to existential crises that loved to spring up between the hours of two and four in the morning.
Someone will probably ask me before the end of this week: “How was your first year?” Maybe the question will happen on the street when everybody’s itching for the walk light to come on. Maybe they’ll actually want to know the truth. But I already know what I’m going to do. I’ll smile with my teeth, ignore the sudden uptick in my heartbeat, and I’ll say, “Fine.” And then I’ll step onto the crosswalk before the light’s changed to tell me it’s safe to cross, and maybe there will be a car racing to pass the yellow, and who knows, maybe this time I’ll fuck up and not time it right, maybe I’ll get hit.
But I’m sure it’ll all be just fine.
Falling in love is a completely transcendent experience. It’s like eating pizza-flavored ice cream. Your brain can’t even process that level of joy. Deep down, our whole lives, no matter how low our self-esteem gets, we think, ‘I have a secret, special skill that no one knows about, and if they knew, they’d be amazed.’ And then eventually we meet someone who says, ‘You have a secret special skill.’
And you’re like, ‘I know! So do you!’
And they’re like, ‘I know!’
And then you’re like, ‘We should eat pizza ice cream together.’
And that’s what love is. It’s this giant mound of pizza flavored ice cream and delusion."
people tend to over-romanticize insomnia and the issues causing it in the first place, don’t they?
hope you and anyone else who reads this is getting more (better?) sleep than i am tonight.
They call us the Millennials, Generation Y.
They call us lazy, self-centered, rotten strawberries, uncommitted, unaware.
Oh yes, I read the papers, too—scientific studies show the Millennials are contaminated with unprecedented levels of narcissism.
How dare we live our lives in a manner that fucks with the needs and expectations of Generation X?
There’s an easy answer, backed by scientific proof—we plead guilty on accounts of being certifiably insane.
Yes, I read the papers—scientific studies show the Millennials are plagued with unprecedented levels of anxiety,
Levels that would’ve had us committed to asylums if we had grown up alongside Generation X.
Generation X, you were the glory days, certainly.
The sudden rise of suburbia, white-picket fences, immaculate lawns sprawling green. And then you raised us in the zeitgeist of the American Dream.
And here we are, the insolent Youth of Generation Y doing our best to do our worst by having children out of wedlock,
By indulging in the pleasures of fucking before marriage because we are uninformed, stupid children who don’t know a thing about sanctity.
Yes, Generation X, you tell us you made love as if it were something sacrilegious, oh my fucking god, you swear you did.
But no amount of prayer will glue something shattered back together. After all, some of us have grown up as the products of your mistakes.
All children bear the scars and stretch marks of growing up. Stop spearing us on a pedestal built of ill-conceived expectations incompatible with the present time.
Quit trying to buff and polish away at the marks on your tarnished trophy. Take a good fucking look at what you’ve heaped your hopes and dreams upon, Generation X.
The ugly, marked surface of the gold doesn’t make for a very pretty reflection, does it?