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Posts Tagged ‘college’

The truth hurts.

That phrase, that ugly goddamn phrase….well, it’s spot on.  The past few months for me have been a little about freelancing, some about hugging my nephew and a LOT about self discovery.  In fact, if I could somehow become friends with Jared Leto I’d make him star in a series of (semi) successful Youtube videos called “My So Called Life 2, Sara and Jordan Catalano Make It Work.”

During all of this employment downtime and cerebral, um, ‘up time’ (?) I made the weirdly easy decision to go back to Graduate School to get my Masters and hopefully PhD because ambition is such a wonderfully intoxicating upper when you haven’t yet engaged yourself in the physical labors of writing 100 page papers and crying at 5am because you’re sick of Toni Morrison and you just want to read your People Magazine.

Some people could claim that Grad School is just a prolonged escape from having to enter (or in my case, re-enter) the real world, and yes; for some this may be true.  It’s kinda like the undergrad who goes to school for seven years, only this time you are fooling people a little more because horn-rimmed glasses are involved and there are COMMITTEES  to which you defend really, really long thesis papers. That sounds pretty serious, pretty good, right?

But for me, it’s a nagging, insatiable feeling that nothing will be right, nothing will be correct until I am writing.  Learning about it, teaching it, talking ad nauseum about it, cursing it, hating it and then loving it all over again.  In my opinion, it’s the correct and just reason for seeking higher education.  And according to this blog post, there’s a great chance I will make no money doing it.

And you know what? He’s right.

Seth Godin is my go to guy when I need inspiration and/or information about blogging, social media and above all, following the path you desire.  It’s a short blog post, only a few small paragraphs, but the reiteration of the obvious in such a squat, powerful little block is a hit in the face. It’s kinda the equivalent of being grabbed squarely on the shoulders and shaken.

Let me tell you, it’s a hell of a thing to all of a sudden remember that you want to be at the mercy of a career that is not as lucrative as others and it’s another kick in the balls when you know that this is where you need to be, student loans and all.

If a drunk relative tells you that you’ll never make any money doing what you love you smile, mumble ‘fuck you’ and then head over to the cash bar.  But if Seth Godin tells you that for every one successful book there are 10,000 flops, you make silent amends and try to envision that with the right lighting a studio apartment isn’t so bad and that ramen noodles can be transformed into Thai delights with the right kind of sauce.

This is not pessimistic; in fact, I think that the way we all make peace with our facial features that we needed to “grow into” is the same way that we (hopefully) make peace with our course of happiness and what that entails, even if it means having to live at home for a year or maybe go to a few less concerts for a summer.

So play writers, operatic singers, music theory majors, yoga instructors and guitar playing broody guys, keep doing what you’re doing.  Seth Godin doesn’t ever want you to stop ; he (and I) just want you to do it for the right reasons….even if you never make it on any type of “best of” list.

Skelladay

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slip-and-fall-3N Allow me to set the scene: It’s the Spring of 2003. As a freshman, and newly initiated sister of Delta Gamma, I pretty much feel as though I have the world by the ass. I found myself proudly walking to class with my DG letter bag and actually saw people take notice of me—basically, I was the shit (Or so I thought).

Whenever a social event would take place, I was ALL over it. Getting ready with my best friends quickly became a rite of passage: we would collect our favorite clothes and meet in a dorm room and rifle through everything to come up with the sweetest outfits. This particular night, we were all going to a party at one of the fraternity houses so we had to look great. Keeping in mind this is 2003, we were most likely rocking the newest peasant shirt or a bitchin’ pair of gaucho pants (Cara). Once we had our look together, we’d trudge up the hill to the house, walk through the back door and into the basement where naked bar-slides were taking place right before our very eyes. Male pledges in white shirts and ties were getting our drinks and we were living the dream.

After hours of beer pong and the occasional pitcher dance, we were all about ready to call it a night. At this point, the floor of the fraternity house was littered with cigarette butts and God knows what the hell else, but, I can safely say the floor was COVERED in spilled beer. This I know for sure.  I wouldn’t exactly call myself a detective, but when you’re wading in a 1/4″ of Natty Lite, you know it.

The girls and I grabbed our coats and started to walk towards the door when the unthinkable happened. I slipped on the beer and fell. Hard. This CANNOT be happening. I’ve seen this happen to people: tripping and falling down an entire flight of stairs or missing a step and falling flat on their faces. This only happens to randoms, to the girl in the ugly shirt, to people on American’s funniest home videos… CERTAINLY not to someone as cool as me.

False.  It happens to everyone, and it happened to me. At the worst possible time.


I’m on the floor, waiting for my friends, a brother, a pledge, ANYONE to help me up. No one does. Instead, all I can hear is laughter…and I’m not talking chuckles, I’m talking guttural scream laughter that seems to continue to get louder. Its official, I want to die. I quickly collect myself and start cursing the Gap flip-flops with the worn out tread I was wearing, while doing everything humanly possible not to start crying right on the spot. Being unsure if the humiliation or the excruciating pain in my arm was worse, I try my damndest to make light of the situation. Luckily, one of the brothers of the house felt bad for me and ordered one of the pledges to walk my friends and I home and to report back to him on my progress.

Long story short: I broke my arm and had a cast. NEAT. No, I didn’t let anyone sign it.
Why is it human nature to laugh when someone gets hurt? Don’t get me wrong, I let out a good LOL a few weeks ago when my roommate came home from coaching field hockey with a soft cast because she, too, had broken her arm. BUT, why is that funny? It’s not. Are we victims of nervous laughter? Are we thanking God we weren’t that poor soul that just publically embarrassed him/herself?

I’ve also noticed that the older you get, the less laughter erupts when you fall.  The Caus said it best:

“If you fall and people are concerned, you’re old…or really fat.”

Anyway you look at it, we, as humans, are assholes.

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