It’s the end of the semester and I am once again haunted by all the shit I have not done.
I do not think that college is actually that hard, it really just comes down to not fucking off.
Not fucking off, now that’s hard.
I can think of at least 20 evenings this past semester when I should have been writing or reading, but instead I got drunk.
So here I am, two weeks off the end of the semester and still procrastinating.
I got my keys for the new apartment today and I’m pretty excited.
On Wednesday a friend of mine invited me to the end of the year party for Rhode Island College’s literary magazine, Shoreline, for which he did the cover design.
The party was more of a book reading with food.
I’ve been to readings before, just never one that was so academic and I was not prepared for the level of scholarly air that permeated the gathering.
I rolled up late, (I got lost, ok?) with a pregnant girl and drunk friend; non of us who have actually successfully completed college yet, and we peak into the room to see a collection of some of the cleanest, cutest, scholarly people all listening raptly to a rail thin brunette who is reading some of her work.
All three of us looked at one another and came to the quick conclusion that we were not dressed appropriately for this event. After a few frantic texts to our friend on the inside, we just said fuck it and slunk in the door, as inconspicuously as a drunk bitch and a pregnant woman can, and made our way to the table where we were supposed to have been sitting twenty minutes before.
I did actually enjoy the reading, to my surprise. I ended up stealing the copy of the magazine my drunk friend purchased and I read it cover to cover.
As one after another the magazine’s contributors got up to share their work, I realized that all these writers looked the same.
Quiet, dumpy girls, with glasses and floral prints, and skinny nerdy boys with a love of post apocalyptic fiction.
I was suddenly struck with the thought that I may not be clean cut enough to be a good writer.
These are the people who observe from the outskirts of life, watching and writing about the filthy beings that populate the earth around them.
I am one of the filthy beings, so what is there for me to watch and write about?
I am a character, something people create and then write about because someone so reckless should not be a reality.
As I started to have a mental breakdown and internally reevaluated my life, a curvy theater major, who had walked into the reading about forty minutes late, took the microphone and started to sing and perform her poetry.
I’m not sure if it was the break in all the death imagery that permeated the readings, or if I was simply caught off guard by the unexpected performance, but I felt a lot better seeing another freak unabashedly be herself.