Final Project Sneak Peak

In case you didn't know, I've been working on a final creative writing project (kindof like a thesis) to finish up my senior year of college. I often am compelled to start writing because there's a story that I wish existed, and that's how I started on this project: a journal from the perspective of a college student, detailing the ups and downs of life. The idea bloomed through my interest in journaling as a way to tell a story and the way I've seen college portrayed in media: there isn't a lot that captures the world I have heard about/been a part of for four years. As I've been writing this project, I've also been thinking a lot about different types of loneliness: I feel like my generation struggles with it in a very specific way, in many different shades, and I feel like it is specifically evident in college. OK those are the threads I've been pulling at so far. Here's a little excerpt: Internet, meet my first draft. More entries to come!

September two
Hi. Things aren’t going badly so far! I’ve been setting up my room for what feels like seven years, along-side roommate, whose name I’ve truly FORGOTTEN (I don’t know how that’s even POSSIBLE to be honest). I texted V about it and she just wrote “hahaha you idiot”, but I could hear her laugh through the screen, as if she’d sent her voice all the way from California. I’ve been pulling rolled posters and postcards from the nooks and crannies of my bags, lining the little plastic animals that V and I used to collect on my bookshelf, unrolling my socks, and then re-rolling them. It feels like roommate and I are both looking at these bare walls and cream linoleum and manifesting that this is home with only our nervous energy. 

V would laugh at me thinking that too. She would throw her head back, so I would catch sight of that little scar on the underside of her chin, cackle, and then look me straight in the face, mouth still pursed, and say in some fake accent, “I don’t think we can manifest anything, darling.” I think she’s the reason I use the word darling as much as I do; it always sounds weird coming out of my mouth, but I push it through because I like feeling like her, and writing in this journal, criss-cross on my new twin XL comforter, I do a little. My clothes are all in the fake wooden drawers. The first drawer and second drawer are kind of smushed, because I filled the whole third drawer with sweaters and clothes that I can’t close the zipper on, but that’s OK. Big plans to go to the gym and get all this under control. The dining hall seems like it’s going to be a challenge, what with the unlimited food, but I think my plan is fill ONE plate, no seconds, no dessert, and focus on greens, and I’ll be able to avoid gaining anymore. It feels like every 5 seconds there’s a reason to eat. Wish I could just drink juices and never be hungry. 

My posters and photos are up. I put that picture of V near my bed. Not in a creepy way where I see it every morning, but in a way that reminds me that she’s around. Hate my arms in that photo, but I've done my best to swallow that because the moment was so good. We had marched over to the state fair with our fresh babysitting salary, played for stuffed animals, rode more rides than usual, and I had eaten a funnel cake without really feeling bad about it, because I was at the gym earlier that day. We went into the photobooth, squished into the box, and the flashes for the pictures came so fast that we couldn’t stop to pose, we just laughed. I think my manifesting is working, if only a little.

September seven

Everyone here looks beautiful. Violet told me that in California the whole student body looks like they are slinking straight out of a Free People catalogue--no brunettes and no boobs. I said “Well, clearly I know I’m not a California girl,” and she laughed without saying “Of course you could be!” In my head that means that she doesn’t want me there, thinks I’m too fat to be there. I thought she would be able to say the right thing, but maybe that’s too much to expect. Well, I don’t feel that out of touch with the people here--it is still the northeast after all, so I get the fashion sense at least a little. I just feel like the rumor that everyone is hotter in college is just unequivocally true. 

This girl Allen on my hall has become my new friend and we talked about that today. She’s really tall, blonde, straight hair that’s shockingly long when it’s not in a braid, and blue eyes that are small and almost clear.  She talked about her parents and their divorce and I thought wow we don’t know each other that well, do we? but I think it says something that she wants to talk to me. I mean, we are going to be here for a while, and I’m not going to get to facetime her the entire time I’m here: But maybe that’s not true. I told her: A relationship isn’t nothing, even though it’s over. That seemed to mean something to her, and she nodded meaningfully while I thought to myself: Unless it’s high school, and all you care about is showing off that you stole his clothes. Cough, Cough, Dylan Rosenbach. 

What I said to Allen was: “Woah. Weird.” She nodded, and we walked to the student group fair. It was made up of lines and lines of foldable tables and sweating seniors in gorgeously curated outfits and tattoos offering free stickers and posters and asking the hordes of us freshman to sign up for their email chains. I was nervous to leave Allen, but I did sign up for the student blog info session, being run by a tiny girl wearing lots of glitter, and a man in a full suit with a beard, who looked about 35. I wanted to make a comment about how warm he must be in the layers, but my brain thought too fast and I just muttered “must be sweaty” under my breath, and he looked at me weird and I laughed and tried to disappear. So much for good impressions. 

I turned around to find Allen, and she was chatting with the girl at the radio station table. She had half her head shaved, a septum piercing, and introduced herself as Nel. I feel like any time I talk to someone who clearly has their shit together like that, I don’t have any idea what to do with my hands. I managed not to say anything about sweating, and then as we walked away: “I feel like I see someone who has their shit together and I simultaneously try to avoid moving and immediately break something,” I said, and we laughed.

Me: Everyone’s so gorgeous here.

Allen: it’s like they all took supplements we didn’t take. You could shave your head, it would look good.

Me: I’ll shave my head if you get a septum piercing and then we slowly together steal everything in that radio girl’s wardrobe by sneaking into her room every weekend. It could be a secret society.

Allen: Where we both steal Nel’s identity? 

Me: I mean, I would die to be her.

Allen told me about her radio show ideas, and we joked that she actually was going to become Nel, and I wondered who I’ll be by next year. Will I find someone to follow in the footsteps of? Will I become someone separate from anyone else? I remember in High School, Violet was who I wanted to be. It wasn’t an unhealthy thing because I knew I couldn’t be her completely. I was too big, too awkward, swimming doggy paddle behind her elegant breast stroke. Being on my own is a whole other thing; I don’t feel like I have anyone to model myself after now, no set social rules to obey or understand. When you’re on your own, your only choice is to sew yourself shut or pry yourself open. I don’t know which one I’m working on. I feel like I’m waiting for something good to pry me open and show me that I’m really supposed to be here.