College is fun, but awful, and painstakingly long. It’s hard and you feel like crying all the time because you’re failing that class, or that boy doesn’t like you, or you know it was Janet who sent you that bitchy, anonymous message on Tumblr. Recently, I was talking to my roommate about how Paul Baribeau’s “Christmas Lights,” a song depicting the desperation and loneliness of 20-somethings, was the suburban-college kids’ anthem, because everyone’s so sad all the time.
She responded something to the effect of “No, that’s just you and your friends,” and it made me wonder, how sad are Elmhurst College students? Is it the lot of us or just a select, misanthropic few? In a community of young adults, one would expect most of them to be miserable, right? But maybe my friends and I are just stuck in the narcissistic bubble Elmhurst College provokes. In the words of Lucille Bluth: “Everything they do is so dramatic and flamboyant. It makes me want to set myself on fire.”
At any rate, the weather isn’t helping, either. It’s either snowing or shockingly bright, sending you into a state of awkward confusion when you walk by that hottie professor. You actually got a “D” on that Shakespeare paper, even though you could’ve sworn Sparknotes knew what they were talking about, the Roost grill happens to be down so they warm up a soggy meat-like patty in the microwave, and they’re out of provolone!
But we must prevail, and keep our chins up, and remember that in five years, our lives will most likely be completely different. All the work we’re doing now will help us in the future. The people we can’t escape from who are currently taking our seats in classes and drinking all our leftover boxed wine will be forgotten. We won’t be angsty teenagers anymore–stop fighting it, that’s what you all are!
In the meantime, we can do things that make us happy. We can adopt kittens and go to concerts and fall in love with neuropharmacologists (Hamilton Morris) and British actors with funny names (Benedict Cumberbatch).
We can throw our clothes on the floor instead of hanging them up, we can make Rice Krispie treats two days in a row, and we can go to friends’ houses at one in the morning on a school night “just because.”
All my pent up frustrations and ill-humor have recently found outlets. I started watching the BBC mini-series Sherlock, and, much to the dismay of my friends, have been finding ways to craftily mention the show in every conversation I have. I’ve been chattering on about it for weeks with my fellow Sherlock cronies, and our goal is to create EC’s first Sherlock Club.
My friend got a new kitten. A tiny, black kitten with a button nose and acid green eyes. She doesn’t have a name yet, but I’m already imagining the hours I’ll log snuggling into Kitten, my tears falling into her thick, dark coat and her pawing me on the back telling me “Everything will be fine,” and, “Aren’t I just the cutest?” Yes, Kitten, you are, now get out of the piano.
And finally, I saw Jeff Mangum perform in Milwaukee. My ever-appearing roommate and I drove to Milwaukee after class, and even managed to cram a few minutes of searching for the illustrious Dr. NeckTattoo (of where he’s rumored to maintain residence) before the show. We squeezed into the tip-top of the Pabst Theater and waited; my limbs shaky, my hands clasped, and my eyes starry. Oh, we had a time. Sadly, I have now reached the pinnacle of live music. I don’t give a shit anymore; I’ve seen Jeff Mangum.
Depressed? Happy? Good for you, either way. Just remember to take advantage of the fun moments, and be sad in your own time when you’re not eating cupcakes with your friends, or reading Harry Potter passages out loud to each other, or dyeing your hair unnatural colors, or impeccably reciting script from Spongebob Squarepants…
