8 Changes You Go Through In Grad School

When people ask me, “how was your first year of grad school,” I typically illicit this maniacal giggle that completely gives away the fact that I lost damn near all my sanity, as I feel most graduate students do at some point. 

To anyone considering graduate school, good luck, and to those of us in the muck of it, hats off to the size of our balls.

You literally have no idea where your money went.
When you started the year, you had mounds of funds just sitting in your checking and savings accounts, and more to come with those hefty student loans you applied for.  But you promised yourself only to use your checking account; savings was money for ‘the real world.’  Like, putting a down payment on a house or a boat or adopting a kid from Cambodia.  All of your money from summers of nannying for 5 days a week and sacrificing the week-long benders of most of your friends who work in the food and retail industry started to accrue, and you’re ready to be an adult and invest in your education, but also live comfortably (i.e. going out for drinks on the reg and splurging at Sephora occasionally).  Fast forward to the end of the year as you’re looking at your bank statement and laugh-crying, because you halfway think this is some cruel prank that a friend pulled on you when she talked you into giving her your PIN number when you were drunk, but you halfway know it’s because you’re inescapably financially irresponsible, just unwilling to admit it out loud (or to your parents).  You contemplate becoming an Uber driver to make some money on the side, then realize you have no car.  You settle for a waitressing job, because you’re 90% certain that your Masters of Science in Television will land you a great career as a food service industry professional by the time you’re 30.

You lose your shit. A lot. Especially in public places.
Your tear ducts get more action than the Boston Fire Department (and probably more action than you, if we’re being honest).  There’s something about grad school that rips away anyone’s dignity in the ability to stay composed.  And you always feel it coming.  It’s always right after a week when you’ve had 10 cumulative hours of sleep, maybe had time to shower about once or twice, and watched too many episodes of New Girl to procrastinate on loads of work that was all conspiratorially due the same day.  That lump creeps up into your throat as you quietly sit on the train.  You think about all your student loans and the fact that you’ll forever be deemed a poor ‘starving artist’ and then you think about the people who fall for poor starving artists, and the options are so slim that you see yourself settling for a guy named Chad or Todd, who will most definitely have a bald spot or an ugly soul patch he refuses to shave and his favorite show will be Family Guy and he'll say things like 'okey dokey', but you can’t give him up because you never know if anyone will love you, and oh, your poor children, who will most likely hate you, because starving artists can’t afford to send them to nice schools and buy them nice things, then they’ll take up prostitution and drugs and get tattoos, oh god, NOT TATTOOS.  And suddenly, you realize you’re doubled over and sobbing on the guy next to you in the Red Sox hat as he eats a burrito and manages to drop a few pieces of mango salsa into your hair.

Your skin reverts to its pubescent ways.
Remember that unflattering yearbook photo of you in 7^th grade?  The one where you had a huge zit on your chin, but you were so cosmetically inept because you hadn’t really gotten into make-up yet, (apart from those N.Y.C. colored mascaras and unhealthy amounts of tinted Bonne Bell), so you used your mother’s foundation, which was CLEARLY not the right undertone?  You ended up looking like someone rubbed Cheetos all over the lower half of your face.  Yeah.  You know the photo I’m talking about.  It was totally acceptable back then.  Your body was doing weird shit and your face became a breeding ground for more weird shit.  No one blinked an eye at the 12-year old with skin problems.  As a 22-year old, I can’t say there’s much sympathy.  Who actually has time to maintain a Clinique facial care regimen when you’re ass deep in assignments, too exhausted to take off your make-up at the end of the night, and only find happiness in consuming all the pizza and beer because it provides a solid coping mechanism?  Your face definitely pulls an America and declares its independence, as you’re left excusing yourself with the line that generates the most compassion from female audiences, “oh, you know, period breakouts.”  And then people start to wonder why you have your lady time 4 weeks out of the month.

You get fat.  Like, really fat.
This is the point in your life when “sweatpants are the only thing that fit me right now” is your anthem. After months of stress, sobbing into slices of pizza, consoling yourself with a 3 a.m. study break for Thai food delivery, and putting off all responsibilities until after you devour a whole half-gallon of Edy’s, you’re a bit touchy about your new waistline.  You have had nights you refuse to leave your shitty, overpriced studio apartment due to the inches separating you from buttoning your jeans that you bought while you still had your undergrad body, but now resemble overstuffed sausage casings as you make a futile attempt to do the jump and wiggle (you know what move I’m talking about).  Spanx cannot fix this.  All of your clothes are a smidgen too tight, but not so tight that they don’t fit, just tight enough to be in that awkward well-I-guess-I’ll-just-throw-a-boyfriend-cardigan-over-this-to-hide-my-muffin-top phase.  You refuse to get a bigger size in anything, because you say it motivates you to go to the gym.  Spoiler alert: you’re not going to go to the gym. Seriously, WHEN is there time to go to the gym?  You spend at least an hour commuting to and from class daily, you have hours upon hours of class that are usually prime for Snapchatting, especially when you have to watch films you've 17 times, and then let's not forget about that job that you have that helps pay for graduate school.  The fact is, the last thing you want to do when you get home is change into a pair of yoga pants that don't fit your ass anymore and take another commute to the gym where you'll be taunted and ridiculed by all of the undergraduate varsity soccer girls because you can't go 5 minutes on the stair stepper without falling off.

Your boobs get HUUUUGE.
Not like the, I-want-to-motorboat-the-shit-out-of-those huge, but like, she-looks-like-she’s-fed-a-whole-village-in-Africa huge.  This is most likely a symptom of the weight gain that you would think bodes in your favor.  Well, it doesn’t.   It prohibits you from wearing any sort of A-line dress or a belt around your waist, because it only highlights the ill-fitting bra lines that start to create back boobs.  Your cups runneth over, and there’s really not a damn thing you can do about it.  You still have all the bras you wore in undergrad that made your boobs look perf, especially for all those frat parties you now reminisce about, mainly because in the real world, no one hands out shitty, heavy-handed mixed drinks for free, even if it is Karkov, for having a nice rack.  You’re too poor to have the luxury to go out and buy the right size for your girls, so you’re stuck being nostalgic with your old titty tamers that give you a mean case of the quad boob.  And don’t you dare even think about going braless if you’re bigger than a B.  You put everyone at risk of being a casualty to your nip-slip.

You become a functioning alcoholic.
Monday?  Margs.  Tuesday?  More tequila.  Wednesday?  Wine.  Thursday?  Anything, just because.  Friday? Was that called a Scorpion bowl…?  Saturday and Sunday?  I’m not going to drink today, really.  Just a Mimosa or a Bloody Mary.  Okay, well maybe two.  But I stop at three. 
This type of bargaining goes on every week.  It’s that voice inside your head telling you that maybe you should let your body have just one day without an elevated BAC, but then you look at your to-do list for the week, put on a bra, call up your girlfriends and say, “let’s just take a really quick study break at Yardhouse.  Oh, yeah, definitely.  Just one beer.”  The next morning, you find a half-eaten, open jar of peanut butter next to your head, mascara stains on your pillow and 37 outgoing calls to your ex-boyfriend.  But you still pull your shit together enough to take a shower, albeit, you vomit into the drain a few times and cut yourself with a shanty armpit-shaving attempt.  The motion of the train makes you sick, and you almost lose your skimpy breakfast of half a container of Chobani (they were on sale at Stop N’ Shop) into your backpack, but you’re successfully on your way to class.  Totally functional.*

*alcoholism is a real thing and I don’t condone it.  I had to put this disclaimer to make it seem like I’m not insensitive.

You nap an unreasonable amount.
You wish you could go back to your childhood and add up all the hours you refused to nap, no matter how much your mother implored, because let’s be honest, you were probably a little terror as a child, and stash them in your sleep bank.  You. Need. All. The. Sleep.  And you take it, unapologetically.  Huge script due tomorrow?  Let’s nap on it.  Thesis proposal?  I should probably nap first.  Production packet that counts for half of your grade for the semester?  I think a nap will clear my head.  There is seriously not enough sleep in the world for you, you determined, worn-down, soul-sucked graduate student, you.  You nap with vengeance.  Even when you’re not tired (but when are you never tired?).  When you’re overwhelmed, the only plausible thing to do is overwhelm yourself even more by taking time to nap and putting off any sort of responsibility whatsoever.  You have missed several outings due to their infringement on your precious nap time, and you’re notoriously known for missing calls and not returning them, because you checked them in your misty-eyed state and then passed right back out.  People probably argue that you’re depressed with the amount of sleep you need.  Depression and sleep deprivation are just side effects of grad school.  Just like student loan debt and superiority complex.

You learn to just go with it.
Yeah, you’re emotional and you can’t afford to feed yourself occasionally, and yeah you’re probably a little pudgy, and yeah, you probably haven’t been sober in about 8 days. But you’re in fucking graduate school.  You’re getting a degree in something cool as hell, and when you finish and get through all of this, you’ll hold a shiny Master’s Degree in your hand, and think, “damn, that wasn’t so bad after all.”  All of your complaints seem silly and so surface level when you think about it.  You realize that you have to be poor to experience how incredible it feels to make money and really earn it from doing what you love.  You realize that emotions shouldn’t be tamed, even if the whole transit system probably thinks you’re on the verge of a mental and emotional meltdown and threaten to pull the emergency break, because feelings are meant to be felt and expressed.  You realize that the way you look is so infinitesimal on the Grand Scale of Things That Matter, because your ideas are what will continue after you, not that goiter of a zit you had on your forehead during finals week or that pair of fat jeans you wear after you indulge yourself in a night of gastronomical debauchery.  You realize that getting drunk and rowdy with friends will always be a perfect pastime, and you’re probably not as much of a lush as you think you are, because you managed to get through a rigorous grad program, which is pretty fucking valiant.  And you realize that you can sleep when you’re dead, because there’s too damn much to see and experience, and it’s better to go through life happy and a bit haggard than to have your eyes shut completely.

How to Be an Adult (or at Least Fake It Really Well)

 

Yes, I realize this is long overdue, and I’m sorry.  But uprooting your entire life and moving 17 hours away from home, to a city where you’re living alone with your small dog that won’t let you sleep for more than 3 hours a night and constantly leaves little surprises underneath your futon when you’re not looking, all for the purpose to attend a prestigious grad school program that you have no idea how you’re going to pay off in 10 years kind of wears on a girl, ya know?

So to answer all of your questions and reply to all of the texts I’ve gotten that I’ve been too overwhelmed to respond to, which led to me forgetting about them completely (sorry if that makes me an asshole), here we go:

Yes, I love Boston. 
Yes, my apartment is great, yet very unfinished—there’s a roofdeck on my building where I frequently escape to drink wine and contemplate what the hell I’m doing; that’s probably what I’m doing instead of responding to your texts about my apartment. 
Yes, I love my classes; especially my sitcom writing class. 
Yes, my professors are great. 
Yes, people comment on my southern accent and yes, I still firmly protest that I have an accent.
Yes, I’ve gotten lost. 
No, I haven’t gotten mugged. 
No, I haven’t met Mark Wahlberg or Ben Affleck or Matt Damon, but I did watch The Departed for the first time last week.
And no, (this one is for my mom), you cannot open a branch of your office in Boston to be closer to me.  Sorry.  I’ll be home for Christmas.

Since coming to Boston, I’ve cried a few times, laughed plenty, gotten on the wrong train only once, and have consumed more “Welcome to Boston!” drinks than my liver and my exponentially tighter jeans can handle.  The adjustment has been a little difficult, especially when I have to alter the sanctity of the pronunciation of my hometown to give anyone the slightest idea of where I’m from (it is LOO-uh-vul.  Not LOO-ee-ville. Not LOO-is-ville.  Not whatever the hell else you call it. Embrace the muted vowels; LOO-uh-vul), and especially when I sound dreadfully out of place when I say “wicked,” or anything with an R in it.

And I’ve finally put on my big girl pants (when I wear pants; do you even know how liberating it is to live alone and wake up knowing that no one is privy to Victoria’s secret except you?) and learned a few lessons (some the hard way) on how to function as a struggling graduate student, ripped away from suburban comfort and dropped into the fast paced world that takes no prisoners.  The transition into adulthood isn’t formulaic, but I’ve tried my damnedest to prescribe the right steps to get me there, and maybe imparting them to you may save some poor soul who, like me, still hasn’t gotten her shit together.

Be On Time.
Probably the most important rule of being an adult.  If you have an obligation, whether it’s a really dry Powerpoint lecture on the history of radio, an appointment with a helpless undergrad who doesn’t know the difference between a thesis sentence and hoagie, or even just a first date that you think is going to be super awkward but turns out to be more than you ever expected; Be. On. Time.  I leave my apartment at least an hour before I need to be anywhere.  Yes, I know this is a little anal retentive, but if you know Boston, you know the green line is as predictable as the weather in the Midwest.  Being on time makes people take you seriously and gives the appearance that you’re dependable and organized (even if you’re far from it).  It also makes people want to hang out with you more.  No one likes to be held up on Ladies’ Night, due to that one friend who is constantly running behind (you all know who you are…). When it comes down to it, would you rather be known as That Girl Who Is Always Obnoxiously Early or That Tardy Fuck.  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Dress The Part (day edition).
There is a distinct difference I’ve noticed between undergraduate students and graduate students.  Graduate students look like they knew they had to go out in public.  Undergraduate students look like someone kidnapped them in their sleep and dropped them off on Commonwealth Ave.  I’ll admit, I had my fair share of days when I refused to brush my teeth or put on a bra to go to class.  I’m at fault there.  My bad.  But now that I’m forced to leave the confines of a college campus and trot around a major city to get to class and actually make an impression on my professors so hopefully they’ll hook me up with a sweetass job when I graduate, there is no time for morning breath or boobs bouncing out of place.  And overall it creates a sense of pride about how you look.  Believe me; I’ve been tempted to take selfies more than ever now that I actually put effort into how I look every day (don’t worry, I refrain. Most of the time.)  If you look halfway decent, people will give you a little more respect than they would if you were in your UK Mom sweatshirt and a pair of inside out boxer shorts.

Dress The Part (night edition).
I am 22 years old.  I no longer shop in the juniors section for a reason.  That reason being that I wouldn’t be caught dead in a neon crop top or shorts that show off my colon.  Don’t get me wrong, I love to go out on weekends and hang out at bars until all hours of the night and get drinks (I don’t think that’s a huge surprise to anyone), but there’s no way I’m going to be that classless broad on the dance floor or sitting at the bar who leaves little to the imagination.  You don’t have to go out looking like a 16 year old with chlamydia to look good (I’m sure some people would beg to differ, but clearly that’s not my target audience here).  Clean it up and don’t look like a slut (by all means, if you’re a slut, go for it, own it, work it, I don’t know your life, but just don’t show it), because it’s hard to take you seriously if a complete stranger can tell that you have a dimple on your left asscheek and a birthmark right above your nipple. 

Take Responsibility.
I am the queen of excuses.  I love to blame other people for everything.  Because obviously, nothing is ever my fault.  But what I’ve slowly been learning since graduate school started is that usually, most things are my fault.  It is no longer my printer’s fault that I didn’t turn in an assignment.  It is no longer my alarm clock’s fault that it set itself to the wrong time.  It is no longer Starbucks’ fault that the line was so long that it made me late.  And it is no longer every single one of my friends’ faults for being so goddamn interesting that I don’t have time to get any of my work done.  Just the other day, I mixed up some dates and didn’t show up for an entire shift of work.  Was it my supervisor’s fault for not e-mailing me to remind me?  No.  It was mine because I’m incapable of being organized enough to write down anything correctly in my planner.  Step up, own your mistakes, and learn from them.  And don’t blame me that you’re wasting time reading this blog post when you should be doing work.  Caught you there, didn’t I?

Smell Nice.
A small, yet very crucial point of being an adult.  My advice: invest in a nice perfume.  And no, that doesn’t mean keep wearing that cheap, alcoholic sugar water you bought in 7^th grade from PacSun.  When you have your own “scent,” you become recognizable and memorable.  And it also covers up all those pheromones and other weird shit your body involuntarily produces (hey, we’re all human).  I have people who know when I’m around because of the perfume I wear daily (which could be potentially precarious if I’m trying to avoid someone or become the target of a stalker/serial killer), and it’s always nice to know that you’ve branded yourself in some positive way.  After re-reading this paragraph, it seems really stupid.  But I’m going to keep it because I like to let everyone know that I smell nice, and want to urge everyone else to smell nice, because the world would probably be a much better place.

Read Up.
‘Ignorance is bliss’ doesn’t really apply anymore.  Sure, when you were 17 and didn’t know the first thing about your government or social graces or corporate etiquette, it may have been acceptable, maybe even endearing; “oh, look at her, how cute, she thinks socialism is about how many friends you have.”But in the real world, that shit doesn’t fly.  Pick up a newspaper. Read something.  Make your brain work.  When someone asks you about a current event or a movie or a book or even your opinion about something so inane and remedial like Miley Cyrus’ VMA disaster, you shouldn’t have to say, “oh, well, I don’t know how I feel about that,” as an excuse for not having the slightest clue what to say.  Make yourself knowledgeable and in turn, make yourself marketable.  The more you know, the more people want to know about you and the more people value your opinion.  Unless you’re Miley Cyrus.  Then the inverse is true. 

Shut Up.
Remember that phase when you thought everything was about you?  When you would tell awesome stories about your awesome life and how awesome your breakfast was and how awesome your outfit was and how not awesome that girl in your philosophy class was and how not awesome it was when she talked in class because she never had anything awesome to say because it wasn’t as awesome as what you wanted to say, and how awesome it was to hear the sound of your own voice until it became sickening?  That phase is over.  Shut your mouth and start listening.  This has maybe been one of the hardest things for me, because I naturally tend to be a longwinded storyteller and naturally think that everything I have to say is the most revolutionary thing ever, like, “yesterday, I ate this really good burrito.”  People have stories.  Stories I can learn from, if I only take the time to shut up and listen instead of centering things on myself.  It’s about learning from others and realizing that maybe there are some pretty awesome people with some pretty awesome stories that don’t involve you and your now, only semi-awesome life.

Cry.
It’s okay to fall apart every once in a while.  Catharsis, I think is an appropriate word.  When you realize that you’ve just moved into your own place, and your shit is all over the floor because your classes have been so busy that there’s no time to tidy, and your suitcase isn’t even unpacked, because you’re still trying to assemble a dresser by yourself, because you refused your parents’ help when they were still in town, and you almost give your dog that you have grown to love with entire heart away because you feel that you’re physically and emotionally incapable of giving her the attention she needs, and you’re sweating through your clothes because your apartment doesn’t have central air and Boston is experience some weird heat wave conveniently as you're moving in, and your TV doesn’t work because you forgot the remote at home, and your sink leaks and your toilet doesn’t flush, and all you can bear to do is sit on the floor in your underwear and cry and cry and cry and dwell on the fact that no one is making you do this, and that you made this decision and you’re the only one who can make it better.  Crying is probably one of the most adult things you can do.  When you realize that you’re not invincible and you understand exactly where you’re breaking point is and that you’ve finally reached it, that’s when you are the strongest.

Breathe.
Take it all in.  This is what becoming an adult feels like.  It’s hard as hell, especially when you don’t know where to begin.  Take a breath, and realize you’re not alone.  The first week I was here, I stood on the platform at Kenmore station.  I boarded the first train that came, which—surprise—wasn’t the train I needed to take.  Of course I panicked.  I’m in this new city and I’m on a train headed to who knows where and my phone is about to die and I have no idea how to make it back to my apartment.  I’m going to die.  I am going to die on the street because the stress is too much to bear.  I will wander around, looking lost and lonely and someone will find me and take me home and I will never see my family again.  I got off at the next stop, and Googled my apartment right before my phone shut off.  I had a slight idea of where I was going, but I wasn’t quite sure.  I knew that I would make it back to my apartment somehow, as I confidently stepped off the train and looked like I knew exactly what I was doing.  And that’s when I realized you don’t have to know where you’re going to walk with purpose.

I'll Do It Myself

                If you ask my parents what my first phrase as a baby was, I’m sure they’d give a mundane answer like, “I’m hungry,” or “I pottied,” or “goddamnit, Jessica” (we repeat what we hear, right?).  I, however, would disagree and have to say it was, “I’ll do it myself.”  And even if I didn’t say it aloud, I know the words were bouncing from cortex to cortex, unmumbling themselves, trying to carry the weight that they would hold one day; when my mom poured my cereal, when my dad tied my shoes, when my sisters helped me put toothpaste on my bristles, my synapses were screaming, “LET. ME. DO. THIS.”

                It’s the eve of my 22^nd birthday, and I would make a wise conjecture that Taylor Swift was not in my position when she wrote that pop song that will forever occupy the Facebook statuses of all those entering Twenty-Two-Dom who have nothing else wittier to say on social media.  If I were to re-write a few verses, maybe it would go something like this:

“It feels like the perfect night to look over my lease forms,
and sign on the X’s, uh uh, so broke.
It feels like the perfect night, to crash before midnight,
‘cause I got a real job, uh uh, still broke…

…We should have warned you,
get used to feeling 22.”

Or something along those lines.  I doubt it would have received much radio play.

                I didn’t know what independence was until this summer.  I’ve had the, “I’ll do this myself” attitude for years, but during the past few months, I’ve realized it’s hard to walk when you haven’t quite mastered the crawl.  Let’s be honest, up until this summer, I was still shitting myself with contentment and sitting in my Huggies, waiting for mom and antibacterial wipes to come to the rescue (if we’re sticking with the baby metaphor, we may as well not half-ass it).  I have lived in comfort my entire life, and was so busy “claiming my independence” that I failed to face the fact that I had no idea what independence entailed.  You can’t buy it on the emergency VISA that your parents gave you (wherein the lenient, self-governed stipulations state Cole Hahn and Michael Kors as your primary emergency contacts).  Independence is a responsibility.  And a goal.  And a mindset that correlates positively with well-being.  And sometimes gaining it ain’t no stroll in the Lexus that your mom lets you borrow that runs on company gas.  But the paradox is, to find it, you have to say, “I’ll do it myself.”

                I stared at the ad on Craigslist.  To call, or not to call; that is the question.  And depending on the answer, I could A.) be homeless in September B.) have a cozy, albeit very expensive, studio apartment for myself and my little pup secured for a year, or C.) take my chances and let some whackjob with a corndog fetish contact me and ask if I want in on “a super-chronic, 3 br 2 ba apt, HOT GIRLS PREFERABLY**”

(**this was an actual ad on Craigslist.  Minus the corndog part.  That was just an assumption).

I e-mailed my mom immediately.  My mother; the woman who paid to put me through Catholic school K-12, a private college for 4 years, and numerous graduate school application fees and visits  (my dad deserves credit here, as well, but he was the second one I contacted; that’s always been our chain of communication [unless I need a DD, then it’s Dad all the way]).  I sent her pictures of the small, $1,225/month studio in a nice area, only a mile and a half from campus that also happened to be pet-friendly.  I was almost giddy when I sent the e-mail, waiting for her approval.  The response I received wasn’t one I was used to: “That’s great! It’s your apartment, if you feel comfortable paying for it and you like it, get it.  It’s your decision.”

Wait.  What?  I just…I can get it…wait…is there a catch here?  You always make me ask permission for big decisions!  Like, remember when I had to ask for permission before spending the night at Kim Toop’s house after prom, and then after you gave me permission, you called to check to see if I was there, and I wasn’t because I wanted to go somewhere where I knew parents weren’t home and bottles would be poppin’?  Remember that, mom?  I NEED PERMISSION.  I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS MYSELF.

Desperately, I turned to my dad.  He was always the more level-headed and financial of the two Hines parents.  I know he’ll have some reservations.

“looks great.  Love the vids. Up to you.”

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE JUST GIVE ME PERMISSION?!  I need someone to affirm that I am making the right decision.

And then it hit me.  Like a truckload of tequila.

I. Am. An. Adult.  Those words felt heavy.  Like I had just lost something that I had been clinging to for the past 21 years; the security of having every move monitored, every step supported, and most acerbically, all decisions dichotomized by the parental panel before approval.

                This was the first of many adult things (by “adult” I mean, “expensive beyond my means”) I had to do.  And while half of me was scared shitless to sign that lease agreement and send in my first savings-account-obliterating payment, half of me started to feel liberated.  And excited.  And despite the fact that I’d be MC Hammer broke after making all the payments for my new temporary home, I felt a sense of pride and self-sufficiency that I had never experienced before.  Coming from the girl who still makes her mother call the dentist and gynecologist to make her appointments, this was one step closer to being a fully functioning adult in the real world (and hopefully one step closer to sleeping without my bathroom light on).

                The preparation for graduate school hasn’t been easy, nor has the transition.  I think back to 7 months ago when I had my fingers crossed, hoping some program somewhere would see potential (which was especially questionable, considering most of my writing samples included the staples of my writing: sarcasm and profanity) in me.  The day I received an e-mail from Boston University’s College of Communication, ranked 8^th in the U.S., I was driving on IN-62, and started bawling (I know it’s bad enough that I’m checking my e-mail while driving, but what’s even worse is crying and singing to myself “This Girl Is On Fire” while trying to navigate the backroads of southern Indiana).  That’s when I knew my shit was going to get rocked here pretty soon, and I was hellbent on being ready for it. 

                Since my acceptance, I’ve been weaning myself off my dependence on others.  There’s never been a feeling more visceral (and cringe-worthy, at times) than knowing that you are your own keeper.  And I’m all about the nitty-gritty and the down and dirty, so bring it on.  When it comes to my future and my goals, I figure it’s better if I do it myself.  If I believe in my talents, then who the hell can tell me that I can’t?  I’d rather do it by myself.

                So here I am.  On the eve of my 22^nd birthday.  Sipping Oliver Peach Honey wine, and watching my little furball make pee spots on the carpet as I blog.  And you know, I can’t help but be happy for myself.  Because through all the years of guidance, I found independence.  Come September, I’ll have $32,000 sitting in my bank account, and Uncle Sam will be happily draining me with sky-high student loan interest rates.  I’ll have tuition to pay, and rent to make, and groceries to buy and a life all on my own.  And despite my protests, I may even have a little help from my parents—you can call it the Fund for Future Starving Artists.  But no matter what I’m up against, I think this process has empowered me and made me realize that I’ll have to do it myself.