I started my journey in this room a scant eight months ago, determined to make my senior year the stuff movies could be ostensibly be made from. I had an uneventful start as a freshman, but I slowly picked up steam during my succeeding years. When I move out in a couple of days, I will effectively kiss off my undergraduate career that is tinged with honor, blown saves, romance, novelty, the fame, and analysis. I played each day with the sole expressed goal of leaving nothing to chance, leaving my effort on the floor that I walked. In my passion, I also left my corpse behind. On the bright side, I can say I did have a girl in the room I expended a $1000 premium to obtain. It was probably the last peaceful night I had. Room D123, you have served me well.
Brandon told me that it seems whatever event happens in his life, I have an event that exceeds it, usually on a traumatic level. I probably would have been offended if it wasn’t so damn true. The 2010 year has left me saying “fuck” on a daily basis, because I can’t seem to shake the monkey on my back. Everywhere I turn, there’s a problem I accounted for in theory, but not in magnitude. Even to the end, I have to move everything out of here within one day, because I’m scheduled to graduate and evacuate Thursday morning. I walked out of my room a few minutes ago, and lo and behold, I saw cats, one of which was in my building, which I presumed empty. I guess as is with most things lately, I’m proven incorrect. For a fleeting moment, I could’ve sworn I possessed Jack Swagger’s smile. I no longer do. I feel hollow, horrible, and hurt. The most damning part about this is that I have no choice but to shake it off, because that is what is expected out of me from others, and myself. I don’t truly want to be the bigger person and overcome my thoughts. However, the way of the land stipulates my presence at the end of the world to start coordinating how to tell the media it didn’t really happen. Of course, it didn’t really happen; it was just a small nuclear accident.
I went dancing last night to celebrate my graduation; ironically enough, I’ll go dancing again on graduation day. I was celebrated because I was the only one crazy enough to dance in my robe. This is why I’m not supposed to retire; I don’t mind stepping out of the ordinary long enough to make it fun for others. It was an impressive night, as I tagged every girl I wanted. Seriously, it was heaven on the dance floor, along with cheap pops, laughs, jokes, and the absurdity of wearing a shirt that says “I’m Awesome” underneath the vestments. While I could have stolen any girl there, Victoria commanded most of my attention for obvious reasons. The happiness she fills me with is different than the thoughts I have of Pippa. I shouldn’t have either thoughts, but they plague me constantly. We danced, laughed, and she admitted that we have the best chemistry on the floor. I went back down memory lane when I busted my ass making her salsa functional. I succeeded in spades. In accordance with the prophecy, I was reminded that it would all be a pipe dream at the moment, perhaps forever. We were nose to nose, perfect opportunity to go for the kill. I passed, accepting the moment for what it was: a good song that I had internalized.
Jordan greeted me with a text this afternoon alerting me I had two more days. It hasn’t dawned on me why I should be happy, but he said something that made a shit ton of sense. There were people not expecting us to make it. Brandon made it. Jordan made it. I made it. We’ve all dealt with our moments of inadequacy, sometimes perceived, sometimes real. The fact is, we made it. I talked to Kristen last week, and she’s making it. I’m questioning why the fuck it has to be so hard, but realistically, it can’t be another way. If I was handed everything on a silver platter, I wouldn’t appreciate the honor of saying “thanks, but I still have six more years before I can relax.” I may not date Pippa. I might not marry Victoria. I might be single until the day before I die, young or old. Thursday, though, I pick up my Bachelor of Arts in Rhetorical Studies and Political Science, pulling off six years of work in four years. I return in the fall to embark on another two years of study in Communication, after which I’ll have my Master of Arts in Speech Communication. If I’m lucky, I’ll have a Peace Studies certificate to go along with it. I’m not happy because I wanted my significant other to cherish the moment of a milestone. I’m relieved that I have my best friends and a crazy mother who accept me for the success I don’t quite feel I deserve.
I am A.T. Guy, or at least that’s what I’ll be forcing people to call me after Thursday. I have sacrificed all I had for this shot at being happy, and I’m not happy. I have outworked my competition, then subsequently stuck it to them to prove I could. I will bitterly and humbly accept my degree Thursday, knowing fully well that I’ll be pissed until I get the one prize I’ve sought for years. I will probably succeed here, most likely won’t. However, I will persist or die trying. That’s the only way I know, that is the only way I know. Skibbedebebop. Not soon enough.
Current Track – Eminem “Not Afraid”