There is a certain way we choose to deal with memories. Sometimes we cherish them, sometimes we compartmentalize them, and sometimes, when the memories are especially fragile, we must watch them from afar. This semester, I’ve been watching a memory, carefully stepping around the delicate periphery so as not to disturb the inner sanctum.
Because I refuse to give Comcast any more business than it deserves — which is negative 800 billion customers, in case you were wondering — and because “Arrested Development” and “Breaking Bad” are on Netflix, I do not watch television at school.
The lecture hall. The universal symbol of collegiate education — a motif almost as prevalent as the red solo cup, the universal symbol of “screw you, Mom.” Yes, midway through the semester I have presumed it time to discuss that pesky, bloodsucking parasite on the backside of the unceasing party that is college: learning. I use the term loosely, of course.
Growing up as an only child wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Although people think being an only child means you get whatever you want, there is a dark side too — … dun dun dun — the feeling that you are always being left out. As a kid, the only things that mattered to me were my Pokémon cards, my friend’s movie birthday parties and group playdates after school.
Last Tuesday I had dinner at my professor’s house. Earlier in the day I texted my friend who had dined there the night before: “Does he serve wine?” She answered in the negative. Completely sober, I chatted with 11 of my classmates during dinner, dessert and drinks — Sprite and lemonade.