I’m wearing shorts. Yes. Yes.
I’m sitting on a bench in the hallway, and my ankle knobbles are pressed against the uncomfortable surface, and I’m trying to angle them away. What is the official term for ankle knobbles? I don’t even know if I want to know.
I’ve been up since 6:00 a.m., when I had to crawl out of bed like something out of Splice—you thought I was going to reference The Grudge, didn’t you?—and get ready for a train to take me from my homeland—my bed at home—to my other homeland—my bed at school.
I have five weeks left of school, and I can taste summer, warm and light, on my tongue, on my skin. But I won’t fully celebrate until there are leaves on the trees. I always find the process of waiting for leaves to bud to be the most agonizing of all processes, aside from waiting for the microwave to beep or for that last minute on the washer to be done. One day, the trees are dead things, black bark and skeletal branches. Then they are frosted in pale green buds. And then, one day, they are covered in lush, sexy leaves. Yeah, I said “sexy.” Those leaves are sexy, green and soft and shady.
Usually, I don’t really care about summer that much, but I am jonesing for this one. I think it’s because of the winter Boston has had. This is the first time I’ve worn shorts outdoors since September, and my knees are like, “YAAAS.”
I’ve only got five weeks left of being a sophomore in college. In fact, in five weeks, I’ll never be able to call myself a sophomore in anything. I’ll just be a soft moron—a pudgy idiot—and that’s a weak joke, I’m sorry.
I just lied; I’m not sorry.
But that is so crazy. Why didn’t high school go by this quickly? By the end of sophomore year in high school, I felt like I had aged a hundred years. I had lost all my baby fat—in my face, I’m still porky other places (nonsexual)—and had grown about a foot. I looked like a completely different person. In college, all I’ve learned is that I can’t keep mixing patterns.
I feel like I’ve become a badass in these last two years. Not, like, a real badass. Like, I would never go on a motorcycle, or litter without feeling guilty, or cheat on a test. But a badass in that I know have opinions. I didn’t really have opinions in high school; I was too focused on being a bitch and stalking—I mean, having healthy crushes on—cute boys. I was so fake that any opinion I could’ve possibly mustered up would be pre-fabricated and as fake as my summery glow—it’s Jergens tanning moisturizer. But now I’ve stopped being a bitch—I’m just a straight-up asshole now (only sometimes, I swear)—but I can have real opinions because I can be real.
Does anyone else feel like that? Like high school was playacting and college is this rough terrain that scrapes and bruises and tears away at those costumes? Not in a bad way, but in a good way. In a way that allows me to shed and molt and about twenty other metaphors for growing up.
I started reading David Sedaris. And I’ve been listening to Bea Miller. And these two things—one old, one young—fit very well with me right now. David Sedaris is kind of who I want to be, but he’s old and still doesn’t seem to have his life together—which is a fucking blessing—and he’s still being crazy. But he’s done more drugs than I’ve done/will probably ever do. And Bea Miller, I’m fairly certain, is a toddler but her songs are so good! “Young Blood” and “Fire N Gold” are slaying me right now.
Today is the first day of the “100 Days Project” that my friend—let’s call her Nora—told me about. And I want to do it but what do I do? Poems? Haikus? Could that be hai-cool? Maybe I should just do 100 days of bad puns. But I feel like I would make it to about day 20 when an enraged Instagram follower punches me in the face for putting them through such terrible comedy. I don’t want to come-die.
Okay, I’ll stop.
I lied. I’LL NEVER STOP.
Also, Bea Miller was born in 1999. She is younger and literally more successful than I will probably ever be. JUST KIDDING. I’m gonna be so successful. People with big egos always reach success, right? That’s what Keeping Up With The Kardashians and The Real Housewives franchise has taught me. O Andy Cohen, guide me onto the path of success.
This blog has sufficiently come apart at the threads, so maybe let’s wrap up? Yeah? Okay. You hang up first. No, you. No, you. No, y—
*line has been disconnected*