For one time only, I'm opening the vault. The vault of rejected/dreadful/prosaic/abandoned column ideas.
Disclaimer: I am fully aware that most of you possess tales of terror, or at least whiny complaints, about your respective Charlottesville apartments.
We're on the verge. The verge of Charlottesville blooming into gorgeous spring radiance. That means warmth, skirts, sandals, skipping class, picnics on the Lawn and general hippie frolicking. Unfortunately, I hate spring.
Having an identity crisis? Don't fret. It's understandable. This is college. An identity crisis is practically inevitable, a right of passage.
I think it's high time for a little adventure and danger in our lives. It's time to be rebellious, flirt with the uncertain and indulge in the mysterious.
Once upon a time, long, long ago, when the pace of life was slower and children respected their parents and, you know, in general, everything was, um, better than it is now, I joined an after-school Spanish club. We met once a week for an hour and learned such infinitely valuable, life-saving terminology, such as the colors of the rainbow, how to count to 10 and how to name the different parts of the face. Perhaps I was driven by a sense of duty, a sense of the opportunities for a blooming bookworm heroine like me.
Wracked by the emotional turmoil of my 21-year-old angst and prematurely high levels of anxiety and stress, last semester I finally resolved it was high time to obtain some inner peace. Time to balance the yin and yang, establish a harmonious existence between my mind, body and soul, focus on my seven chakras, strengthen my inner chi and, most importantly, emulate Madonna and reach nirvana. Ah, inner peace.
For the student, it is the equivalent of the classical descent into hell: Aanight of paper writing.
I put my game face on: Dignified, uncompro-mising, chin slightly raised and eyes squinted as if my mere gaze is incendiary and will soon ignite the potted plant and ant farm residing on the windowsill.
A level of Dante's hell should be reserved for the GREs. And by that I mean for the nefarious, sadistic individual who had the brilliant idea of torturing poor (literally, the test costs $115) stressed fourth-years with a slow and painful death by bombardment of multiple choice questions. To all you lucky, blessed students who are ignorant of the Graduate Record Examination (which is very few I'm sure, since everyone these days is going to graduate school.
