The Coming of College

The hippies have got me. I’m writing this between shoving batches of kale chips into the oven, with an edition of Adbusters open at my side. I haven’t written on this blog in weeks, and since this seems to be a developing pattern, I think I’ll stop apologizing for it now. In nine days, I will be arrive at college, the fabled land beyond the misty mountains and pine trees that as of now, remains solidly in the world of fantasy. That’s nine days before this blog changes from a home for my off-color complaints and criticisms of a small town, to my off-color complaints and criticisms of a large city and school. So I will now join the ranks of the college bloggers (perhaps the flakiest variety). I’ll be complaining about shaving in communal bathrooms while 34% of the population doesn’t get to attend university at all. It’s good to maintain a perspective.

I won’t be traveling across the country alone. A few acquaintances from high school, and one close friend will also be going to school in the Boston. Because she is attending a tiny engineering school, I have been entrusted with providing her a “college experience”. For naive teens and adults, a “college experience” is a double major in Mixing Everclear and Vomiting in Communal Restrooms. What a shame I don’t drink. My other job is to find her a better boyfriend, a quest the current one would rather me not complete. 

Don't forget the popular vocational class "How to hook up with drunk sorority girls at greek parties"

Don’t forget the popular vocational class “How to hook up with drunk sorority girls at greek parties”

On an unrelated note, kale chips are extraordinarily good with ginger and sesame salad dressing. 

My parents are worried I will binge drink. In a safe little community like ours where marijuana is a family passtime, foreign (legal) concepts like alcohol are scary and disturbing. They’re also worried I will do heroin, but that at least is unfounded. 

Cocaine is okay, but only once or twice.

Cocaine is okay, but only once or twice.

There is an elderly gentleman at the store who is lamenting my imminent departure. He’s an obsessive compulsive customer who takes two hours to shop every Saturday morning. A bit of an overzealous yogi-type, he has decided that I am “ready” to absorb the information on, because you, I quote, “do not have to suffer to be creative”. He suffers every time new cauliflowers are brought out. What if they’re better than the ones he painstakingly took 15 minutes to choose? His avocados must be between .41 lb and .44 lb. Unlike the rest of my coworkers, I take his idiosyncrasies in stride, but that may be due to the fact that I’m the only one sensible enough to tell him I’d like to do something else when he’s rambling about conspiracy theories. Since I seem to be sole person capable of dealing with him, he is terrified of coexisting with my soon to be ex-coworkers on his own. It’s also a shame I’m leaving because I have his weekly shopping list memorized. 

Am I worried about traveling across the country to an entirely new place? No, but I’m worried my mother will in a desperate attempt to bring me back. There is also the matter of my duo, the little music venture that has been keeping occupied all summer. Split up, the music of Soul Bandana will atrophy. 

But despite all of the things I will be leaving–band, crazy customers, and a lax drug environment–the future looks better. At least until it happens.


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