FIT

I can’t believe that there is less than a month left of my time in this dorm.  

In three weeks, the One Direction posters, creepy polaroids, childish drawings, ornaments, deflated balloons, and magazine tear-outs will be gone, leaving only bland white walls.  We’re going to have to take down all of our Asian fridge magnets, famous quotes, and beautiful paintings.  All of our dishes and utensils and our endless supply of chopsticks from Thai food will be gone.  We’re going to have to throw out all of our food, probably leading to discoveries of various molds and bacterium.  All of my clothes will be off of the floor, all of my books packed in boxes.  

I remember buying all of this stuff.  I remember going to Costco and stocking up on oatmeal and mango chunks, buying various teas and iced tea mixes.  I remember buying those plates and those cups, and all of the dusty, barely used, cleaning supplies under our bathroom sink.  

I remember how freaked out we all were, and how nervous I was.  The first day, I watched my parents walk away from me after we ate at Chipotle, then walked back to the dorm and crept into my room while my roommate was asleep.  I remember the smell of my Lavender air freshener, which reminds me of FIT to this day.  I remember the pointless orientation meetings and wanting to get Henna tattoos with Rachel.

I remember sitting in the kitchen and laughing, rather yelling, with the Rachels.  I remember the Asian time machine, the Thomas Edison quotes, the bagel taped to the bulletin board, making a One Direction fanclub on facebook, meeting models at DKNY, meeting Oscar de la Renta, ending up at a random Italian street fair, dying my hair dark, meeting Tim Gunn, going to see Timeflies and a bunch of tweens makeout, being creatures of the night and taking photographs everywhere, sleeping outside for SNL, sleeping outside for One Direction, almost meeting Harry Styles, seeing One Direction at MSG, being stuck in Hurricane Sandy, singing with a guy in the staircase, baking cookies literally EVERY NIGHT, going to an empty Polish club, going to the ghetto, electing Obama, having Rachel puke into a wine glass, buying a Harry Styles cardboard cutout and pretending he was on campus, waiting outside the Trump Hotel with Rachel and freezing, hookah nights, Voxing a million times a day, dying during Winter Break because I missed them, that hobo at McDonalds telling us to tell his mom he was going to be a little late because he had an extra burger, giving myself a tattoo, having Foolty come over… a lot, puking through my nose, taking photos on the beach hungover, being shipped with someone who would never be into me, celebrating 40 days of Lent, meeting at the doggy bed, playing Thruth or Nipples, making out with everyone.  I could go on for days.

I look at the mess we’ve made in our lives and in our apartments and I can’t believe that this is college.  I would have never thought last August that I would love it here so much.  I would have never thought that I would meet some of the greatest people in the world, and still keep in touch with the loves of my life back at home.  Class can end, but I want to stay here until I’m emotionally ready to move on.  

I Miss Writing

I like to write.  I would say that I am fairly good at it.  

I like to be sarcastic.  I enjoy being humorous about my sadly boring life.

I don’t talk about it much, but I guess I will write it down somewhere, so perhaps at least one human being can benefit from my anecdotes.

I didn’t realize I liked to write until I was a senior in high school.  To be honest, I can’t write analytical essays, like the ones where you read Beowulf and then chose 23 quotes from it to support your thesis on how he was actually bionic.  But if you asked me to give you five pages about how my sister used to think she was a Husky, or about my favorite flavor of potato chips, I could conjure something up by sunset.

So during senior year, we would have mini contests when our essays were due.  We would split into three groups and swap essays with each group.  All of the essays were anonymous, and you never read one by someone in your group.  Then each group picked their favorite and read it aloud.  Among those three, one winner was chosen.

Now of course, with my eloquent writing, I was normally picked as one of the favorites in a group.  I tend to think my writing is excitable to read.  But of course, each time my essay would be chosen to be read aloud for the final round of judging, that one kid who sounds like he can’t speak English properly volunteers to be the group speaker.

Now I’m not saying I need someone like Morgan Freeman to read aloud my essays in a deep manly tone, but it would be nice if it was a Baptist priest, or Jay Leno.  One cannot receive the full enjoyment of my thought process when my sentences are being butchered one by one.

Nevertheless, I forgave the class each time they clapped slightly louder for that one kid that appeared to be an ounce more sarcastic than me.  I knew deep down inside that I was a winner. 

When my sister, who is five years younger than me, was in second grade, she had to write an essay about her family.  Of course, she had trouble with grammar and articulating herself properly at the age of 7, so I might have guided her pencil in her notebook just a slight bit- well more like the entire thing.  Later on in that month, there was to be a back to school night for parents, and they were to chose the best essay from every grade to be read out loud to the parents whilst they drink water and snack on stale cookies.  My “sister’s” essay was chosen to be read aloud.  

I told my parents to relish this opportunity, as I relive my elementary school years vicariously through my sister.

I don’t quite know how it is that I have seemed to accumulate so much angst and sarcasm into one hopeless mind, which only magnifies endlessly.  Perhaps the more I know, the less magical it all seems.  The more that inarticulate boy read my essay, the less appealing it grew to be. The more I tried to glorify those around me, the less rewarding it became.

I have a lot contained in this body.  It’s decaying, and blooming, and constantly spitting up things that I will never understand.  It has for my whole life. 

The Blue Dress

Check out my flickr

BTS

Behind the scenes of me being weird and taking self portraits.
See it here

Scanography

Self Portraits

An evolution of me