Back to School

I missed my roommates immensely. They're charming and entertaining.

Albion's overall shittiness, however, doesn't seem to have declined in the past six weeks of Saving-Heating-Money-And-Oh-Yeah-Christmas-Too Break. It still costs your firstborn son to go here. The nearest Taco Bell is still 20 minutes away. There will be no more sushi, red wine or lazy days for me, for awhile, anyway. It's all salty Baldwin food and Five O'Clock vodka from here on out, both equally as unpleasant to consume. God, I'm spoiled.

Above all, I abhor going to class. Day after day I will fold myself into a series of ancient wooden desks with Greek letters carved in and try to force my mind to expand. I'll half-listen to lectures, take half-assed notes and sleep. I'll draw elaborate doodles and practice signing my name with a flourish. I'll stare out the window and name my future children. I'll think about Bob Dylan and macaroni and cheese and water towers and how a fax machine works, and I shall try my hardest not to explode.

Sitting in class makes me want to cry or scream or run away. It always has and it always will. I like to learn, but I do not like to be taught. It grinds my gears that someone, somewhere decided that I have a single four-year period during which to learn everything necessary to make me acceptably successful. Irrational? Ungrateful? Yeah, but fuck off. This is Onion Rings.