Let’s Talk Money

Okay, so I’m going to cut to the chase; I’m not going to bother using any fancy writing techniques in this post, or try to concoct some wordy equation that eventually leads to some moral conclusion. I’m pissed, here are some thoughts to gnaw on.

Yesterday at rowing, I noticed a divide between people on the team after the spring break trip to Florida last week. Me, along with two or three other people who opted out of the trip, were behind by a few practices and have been bearing the grunt of general lack-of-knowing-what-the-hell-to-do during water practice. Sure, I would have loved to spend some time in Florida getting tan and trashed every night; but I couldn’t. There was no way I could ask my mom for a down payment of $400 AND flex money, especially when she’s in the process of vying for a new job. So you might understand why I’m so bothered by certain people giving me shit for “not having as much practice” every other day.

Furthermore, I don’t need to hear you give me trouble about switching schools; I came here for Journalism, I’m no longer doing Journalism. Therefore, I’m going to a different school next year 1) to save my damn money and 2) for the smaller atmosphere. No offense to you at all, I just don’t want to hear it.

Lastly, I still can’t understand how you can’t grasp why I’m not going to Lollapalooza/Coachella/Loufest/the list goes on – once again, it’s not that I’m choosing not to go so I can feel bad for myself (woe is me, hashtag 1stworldproblems el oh el oh em gee), I CAN’T go because I DON’T have the flex money because I JUST found a fucking job. Which you apparently don’t have. Because your dad is the CEO of something or another and you live in the richest suburb of Illinois, or maybe you just have no regard for your parents’ spending limits. Who knows. I just don’t want to see you tweeting about how nobody has an excuse for not being at Lolla. Lo and behold, I present my excuse.

It kills me a little that there are 19-20 year olds out there that are still having a difficult time understanding the concept of money. Not that I’m perfect, but I like to think I’m above that stage (“I’m a spoiled little fuck”) at this point in life.

There it is, laid out on the table. I usually don’t get mad about a lot of things, and I try to keep the cynicism on the DL, mostly because whining is aggravating. But it’s been a shitty week, and I need to start writing again.

On a brighter note, Santorum just pulled out. Make what you will of that.

Vague.

I can’t sleep. I stare out my dorm window and watch the cars pass down Ashland as it winds out of site, my own personal sheep to count. Once this fails I stare at the springs above me, memorizing the looping pattern stretching across the seams of the mattress. But I can only occupy my mind for so long, and I eventually drift, plunge, but more appropriately fall into the familiar yet abysmal process.
Whispers of “what ifs” are consumed by shadows of “should haves.” I glance at the clock, the god damned clock, 30 minutes are already gone. My body’s older, why hasn’t my mind changed? Was there not once a time where the night constituted sleep instead of regretful reflection?
The relentless questions finally propose the grand finale, “who are you?”. A trick, this one is always without an answer. Amazing how little one can know themselves. Maybe the line between actions and words have confounded me again. Maybe I need a sense of direction. Maybe I’m just as perplexed by those in my life as I am by myself. Maybe, just maybe, I’m looking for abstract answers in concrete beings.

But maybe I just need some sleep.

Remind Me Again Why I’m Taking Geology..

Right now as I stare at my laptop looking for something to write about and inspiration to suddenly strike (it rarely does, in case you’re wondering), I can’t help but feel like I’m in the moment. Surrounding me are the engineering and geology buildings, among many others whose hall names I don’t really care to remember. And here I’m sitting, just drinking my coffee on top of one of the Mizzou pillars. I probably look just like those pictures that the University website puts on the front page to advertise to incoming freshmen, but for now I’ll ignore the cliche.

It’s difficult for me to realize it’s only been a month since I’ve come here, but I feel secure in saying that Columbia is my home away from home. This isn’t to say I don’t miss West County every now and then, but compared to a month ago the homesickness is minimal. One of the main staples of this past month has been my floor, which consists of nearly every honors journalism hipster within a radius of every bordering state. I would point out a few, but there isn’t a single person that I wouldn’t describe as a character.

Speaking of journalism, I’ve come to realize this field is more intimidating than the grandeur of the school itself. One month and I already feel as if I’ve contributed nothing to the J-school, at least compared to the Dean’s Scholars on my floor. But as intimidating and open-ended as journalism is, I’m still drawn to the possibilities it offers. I mean, that internship to Milan isn’t looking too shabby…

All in all, after a month it turns out there was nothing to worry about; 30,000 kids doesn’t sound as terrifying as it used to. Yet it is interesting, considering as many students that are here how quiet the quad always stays.

From West County to CoMo

If you’re not a fan of nostalgia, don’t bother reading any further.

I knew I’d fallen in love with Mizzou in October after a college visit with my Mom; as much as I tried to tell myself it was “too big,” it drew me in until I finally declared in December that I would be yet another alumni screaming “M-I-Z” well after I graduated. From that point on, the idea of college kept me at bay when 6-page Lit papers would be due the next day. Conversations on Facebook (mostly with Nick or John) would ultimately draw upon finally being able to up and leave that one day in August. Everyone and their mother was done with high school.

Fast forward and summer hits early as the seniors get a well-deserved early release, and prom the next day. As memorable as the dance was, it only stressed the prolongation of high school even more as I survived one too many Cha Cha Slides. The next few days became comparable to learning how to walk again; this was not just another summer, but (unbeknownst to many of us in May) the last moments to spend with our friends in West County.

After the quickest month I’ve ever come to experience, June arrives and my Uncle takes my sister and I on a trip to Europe that we had been planning since the beginning of the school year. Two weeks of venturing through Madrid, Barcelona, Paris, and England proved to be a vacation that I will never take for granted, though I should have taken more pictures. This also happened to be the two weeks during the summer that the word “cicada” became a part of the local weather report.

Upon returning after a very, very jet lagged flight home, I made my way to Kelley’s house for her birthday/graduation party. At the time it felt as though I hadn’t seen her in a much longer time than just two weeks, but now I realize that the obstacle of college will make this a more common occurrence with many people I’m close to. Sidenote: the smirnoff with the supernova Mountain Dew and blue Koolaid at her party tasted like happy. Yes I know, I just described how something tasted with an emotion.

Weeks went on and we bore through the “heat dome.” The biking routine I had adopted along with Kelley was brushed aside to the early morning to avoid passing out on the side of the road. I also started to notice how little my friends had been getting together to hang out, but I don’t blame them. I wasn’t exactly ready to race outside to a car with broken AC just so I could hang out at a Bread Co. Eventually – and I mean eventually in the sense that nature really procrastinated on this one – we returned to 80 degree weather, which apparently does exist in St. Louis.

However, as soon as the pinnacle of summer had dissipated, college emerged from the sidelines. The first to leave was Nick; we spent his last night in town hanging out at the park and “cone-ing” at McDonald’s (I promise it’s fun!). Soon after others began to leave, whether it was for Rolla, Purdue, Drake, Truman, or even Mizzou (among others). Yet it didn’t really hit me until my last Saturday night.

Leaving work actually proved to be a little sentimental, which really through me off guard. I said my goodbyes there and left in a better mood than I ever had been in at the place. It was on my drive to Kelley’s where I knew how close college had come, and the consequences the move would have. We spent the night being stupid-random, varying from hanging out at the pier at Lake Chesterfield to belting out Disney classics at a park.

And as for now? I’m just sitting here, one of the last few left in St. Louis. After spilling all of this out, I’ve noticed 2 things: 1) I’m nothing more than a walking breathing stream of consciousness at 1 A.M., and 2) at 700 words I still can’t fit in all of the best parts of this memorable summer. Nevertheless, I felt it was necessary to recap and appreciate the last few months on the eve of departure.

Less than 7 hours. Even shorter than another day of high school.

 

 

 

 

“You Must Be THIS Tall to ___” ; My Childhood Slogan

If anyone were to visit my laundry room, they would immediately spot the measuring stick my Mom attends to almost religiously on me and my sister’s birthdays. Look any closer and they would find the penciled marking of my 12th birthday at the 4 ft. 5 in. tally.

No, my Mom didn’t accidentally cut a few inches; that pencil etched at the 4 ft. 5 in. mark exactly above my head that day. As my classmates towered above me my confidence retreated, and I finally felt as small on the inside as I was in height. Softball became more challenging as my opponents became more intimidating, and basketball was all but laughable. Even amusement parks yielded little for me to enjoy because of my height-handicap; half of the roller coasters at Six Flags were off limits to me.

At 5 ft. I began to jokingly refer to myself as “the midget,” as I was tall enough to be considered a normal height but still short by average standards. However, I never outgrew the mousy disposition that accompanied my compact frame. I loathed the curse that made me unable to look most people in the eyes when I talked to them, made me too afraid to speak first, made me second third and fourth-guess myself when making a decision.

Now at a staggering 5 ft. 4 in. and having a status of recently graduating high school, some aspects have changed; something about being thrust into the semi-adult world will have that effect on anyone. Some things remain – although I grew (0.2 inches above the national average, holla!!), I sometimes still see the world through the eyes of my vertically-challenged ten year old self. However I don’t consider this to be a con at all; I put stock in the concept that living through life’s bullshit ultimately builds character. After years of feeling too small, whether this relates to my stature or my state of mind, I’ve come to appreciate who I grew up to be. Pun intended.

After all, I finally determined that most of the rides at Six Flags were crap…after I turned 14.

“In Five Years Time…”

Dear Katie,

September 23, 2006

We know you are going through a lot of changes in your life right now and you do a fantastic job at everything you attempt. You amaze us with your maturity and intelligence.

As you get confirmed realize that doing the right thing isn’t always the easier thing to do but it is the best thing to do. We believe you have a pure heart that will guide you in all of your endeavors.

You continually try to improve yourself in every aspect of your life. That makes us extremely proud that you are our daughter. Remember that throughout life Dad and I will always be there for your great times and in the tough times.

As you embark on your high school years be assured we believe in you and all that you stand for. You have a great analytical mind that allows you to look to the future and dream the opportunities that are available to you. We think you can accomplish anything you set your mind to.

Lastly, always know that we love you unconditionally and will always support you.

Love, Mom and Dad

I found this letter in a slightly crumpled envelope with my name on it as I scowered my room for my missing bracelets. I had gotten a quarter of the way through the letter before I realized when my mom had presented it to me; driving home from my pre-confirmation retreat in 8th grade.

As I slouched in the back of the car, pissed off for whatever reason I can’t remember, my parents casually asked me how the retreat was. I had given some half-ass response, right as my mom handed me the letter. Parents had apparently been instructed to give their 8th graders a letter in regards with the oncoming confirmation next weekend, but being the middle school brat that I was, I could have cared less.

It pains me that my mom and dad poured so much thought and care into this seemingly insignificant letter, and I can’t even recall reading through the entire thing. And just as any professional pre-teen middle schooler would, I took my parents’ affection for granted and fought with them during the car ride home instead. Five years later, as they go out of their way once more to make sure my college experience is the best they can offer me, I’ve finally read through the whole letter. Even though the date is five years past it’s prime, the message now means the world to me.

Thanks Mom and Dad!

V-necks, Skillet, and Jesus

This week turned out to be the year anniversary of me believing that I was a Christian; ironically enough, this week also marks my decision to finally give up on the youth group ideal. This realization was mostly prompted after my Facebook was spammed with photos of my old youth group’s mission trip and several bible status updates. After a year of attempting to read and interpret the Bible, I’ve finally thrown in the towel. I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know who/what God really is, and I’m not going to feign like I have those kinds of answers. What’s life without a little mystery, anyways?

I’ve never been good at the concept of “blind faith,” and continuous efforts to brainwash myself into adopting this way of thought have proven futile. During my expedition towards forcing myself to understand Christianity, I would digest every word the leaders at this particular youth group would say to me in hope of a sudden understanding; I was sick of myself fighting what I wanted so badly to buy into. I even tried journaling after reading certain bible verses, but the repetitive motions of tearing through different interpretations night after night served the opposite effect of its purpose.

Reading over this brief account of my run-in with Jesus’ number one fans, I know I sound a little heated and biased, partly due to the youth groupies I’ve gotten to know over the years. I can respect those who stick to their beliefs (there’s a line to be drawn here), as long as they don’t turn their theological views into a hobby. Case in point, if I see you running around in a “G-ZUS IS MY HOMEBOY” t-shirt whilst cranking Need2Breathe on your iPod, we most likely won’t be friends. As for those who are a tad more humble about their religious beliefs, props to you. I’m still on the path of trying to understand. Even though my metaphorical path of religion and faith has its’ fair share of shit holes, I’m still journeying. I tend to hope that someday I won’t be as bitter whenever Christianity strikes a cord in my life.

And as for those t-shirts? I wasn’t lying.

 

Psychology

Huddled in a booth near the bathroom at a McDonald’s, I finished off my order of fries while Stacey prodded her milkshake with a spoon. As the Midwest would have it, the weather sucked and left us with little to do on a Wednesday night. We mulled over the prospect of her new summer boyfriend until Adam rounded the corner.

“Is your shift over?”

“Yeah I just got off.”

We joked about Adam dropping in on “girl talk,” but in reality I was okay with him joining the conversation. Adam was one of those kids that never made the atmosphere tense – he’s a pretty chill guy.

As the night went on we eventually reached the inevitable subject of college, in which Stacey decided to joke about the lack of success in the journalism field. I knew this was just a ploy to get a rise out of me, so I bashed her sympathy for Psychology.

“Employers like to see people with experience in psychology,” Stacey rebuddled, “and 95% of jobs anywhere expect it.”

“Where are you getting that statistic?”

“I’m making it up, but it’s about the same”

Adam shifted uncomfortably and muttered about the pros of psychology while me and Stacey duked it out. He didn’t know that this was a common occurrence between me and Stacey; an ongoing challenge between our egos. Either way, in a matter of minutes we were back to normal conversation that lasted until the manager used his powers of passive aggression ( AKA staring at us) to get us to le

The night eventually resulted in me and Stacey discussing every subtopic known to man, from relationships to religion, and even the thought of death. Morbid, maybe, but interesting nonetheless. I consider Stacey one of my best friends, yet as I progress through life I’ve come to discover that you never stop learning from those close to you.

“I’m trying to write more this summer, I started this little blog thing but it’s kind of more like an online journal,” I admitted. Given the circumstance, I felt comfortable admitting my summer task.

Stacey nodded in acknowledgement. “I used to write about everything in my journal.”

“What did you write about?”

“Anything – there’s stuff about guys in there, God and youth group, whatever was going on at the time.”

“You should put it online if you’re wanting to write more.”

“I probably won’t, it’s all personal stuff. Like, not stuff I want to share or anything.”

I could understand that, respect it even. A person’s thoughts don’t need the pressure of being scrutinized – privacy can act as protection for the sanctity of one’s outlook on life.

I reached for my car door in order to fan some night air into my car – the carbon dioxide from our incessant talking had fogged the windows. As I felt the dew in the air hit my face, I began thinking of how great it is to feel like you’re relating to someone on a deeper level, even a close friend. Recollecting the night, I thought back to Stacey’s interest in psychology and her care for the inner-workings of others; I regretted poking fun at her interest in the major. Though you can never really “figure someone out,” so to speak, you can relate to them and learn more about them, ranging from their childhood memories to their favorite foods. That’s what we did – two friends sitting in a car at midnight, talking through the goings-on of life in order to relate to each other and learn more about each other. It’s the act of simple psychology.

1 A.M.

One A.M. in the middle of May is of no surprise to me; I’ve visited this late hour many times trying to half-assedly accomplish some end of the year final-driven homework assignment. However this time is different, as I am no longer in high school and suddenly have a large amount of free time to myself. This may seem nice, and while it has been a luxury for the past few weeks I’ve come to face the question of what my purpose is now.

What should I be doing? Who should I start becoming? The pressure to hone my skills and pursue some kind of goal seems to originate from my sense of helplessness at the hands of the uncertainties of the future. Hell, I have no idea what I want to be when I “grow up,” and I sometimes think that I chose to major in journalism at Mizzou simply so I could go in-state and avoid making a difficult decision.

Yet I am certain of one aspect, being that I aspire to write. I can’t let my seemingly boundless laziness prevent me from pursuing writing, I just can’t. I learned to love reading by the time I was six, and writing by 2nd grade. I’ve come to realize that I subconsciously “subscribe” to different blogs online in order to get a taste of the writing styles of the average person. Now that I finally have the free time necessary to actually write, I’m making it my goal to churn out my thoughts.

Before leaving high school, I wrote an email to my English teacher in response to her farewells to the rest of the class; in it, I told her that I would be “continuing to write through the summer in order to prepare myself for my major in journalism.” In reality, this email was a promise to myself – a concrete promise I could see for myself. Choosing journalism as a major acts as a stimulant as well, being an excuse for me to force myself to actually work towards improving my writing.

So here I am, at one A.M. in the middle of May, starting a blog instead of cramming for a Pre-Calc final, and hoping that this small goal eventually snowballs into purpose.