It is the second semester of my senior year in college and I Have Given Up.
As you may have noticed, I haven’t written a column in months. I probably shouldn’t be advertising this, but as much as I try to blame it on “a severe case of writer’s block” – like I’m a writer and that’s a thing that happens to me, like I’m on my fourth scotch in a noisy gastropub, illegally smoking a cigarette, and eating a no-sugar fudge bar or something – it’s probably just because I Have Given Up. Just because I’m too goddamned lazy to devote two hours out of the day to spew some questionably publishable bullshit at Microsoft Word.
I can’t help it. I’ve been griping about this school for almost eight semesters now that I can’t even be bothered trying to think something up that might hold a modicum of interest for my readers (i.g. the unfortunate internetters who happen upon this column on the tenth page of the google search “stupid, angsty bitch” and my dog).
I had a bunch of ideas, sure, but whenever I sat down to write, all I could think about was how I should be doing homework for the classes I didn’t even need to take. That’s right. I’m not in school because I need to be this semester, I’m in school because I was way too much of a baby to just graduate early. I wanted to keep writing for this sorry rag and hang out in the Frick all day everyday. Haven’t I already written on this topic? Yeah, probably!!! But leave me alone; I’ve got a pass/fail class to study for.
My friendships also suffer the same laissez-faire attitude and ennui of my current station in life. It’s gotten to the point that I’m so unmotivated that, to those I haven’t actually had a conversation with in weeks due to school and almost-real-person jobs that so many seniors are wont to have, instead of heckling and squealing about how much I miss them, now I just stare at them with a weak smile and feel absolutely no commitment to say/do something interesting. I can’t even fake it anymore. Is this a sign for what life will be like post-grad? We’re too busy to give a shit about anything that isn’t supplying us with a feeble chunk of change or anything containing alcohol? Bite me, because I can’t handle that.
Four years of school, unpaid internships, the fact that fellow English majors who have as much creativity as a dead cat and the portfolio to prove it have better prospects than me (better chances of making bank and having enough money to get married and have children in the hip early 30s as opposed to maybe being capable of such a thing when I’m, oh, I don’t know, 60?). Where was I? Oh, yeah; all this shit is bringing me down and I Have Given Up.
Sorry if this depressed you, but what do you expect the final words from Triple Cs to be? (Catherine Complains Constantly; a nod to the admirable freshman last year whose friends couldn’t even pick her out of a line up of one).