The First Piece
When you write, you expect someone to read. Not that it has to be read multiple times, or by people other than yourself, or your roommate who owes you from the time she kicked you out so she could play with the one boy named after Jimmy Dean sausages, but you do expect to someday, somewhere, have someone look at your writing (even if it is the Jimmy Dean sausage roommate) and say, “Wow, you really wrote this?”
I mean, they don’t have to mean it, because after all, they DID owe you, but still, acting in middle school was fate for them, because now you really feel as though what you have written has meant something. Not that it actually did mean something, but you feel as though it did, that is enough to get you into the writing mood again, which is almost as good as receiving chocolate unexpectedly, or being visited by surprise by a special someone. (Not to be confused with that great feeling you get when you realize that no, you didn’t oversleep, but rather have two and a half more hours-that feeling is left untouched and unmatched.)
Being in the writing mood is perhaps what brought me here in the first place. Had I not wanted to write, I do believe that my ventures in the city would have been entirely uninspiring and would have rapidly been compared to an episode of some Anime show on the Cartoon Network. However, instead I was thinking about writing, and so I wrote, and apparently wrote well enough to be accepted into Emerson College, the only college that after looking at I still wanted to attend. So here I am, in the city, with no one but a Jimmy Dean lovin’ roommate, a friend rightly deemed as an asshole, perhaps the asshole, and an RA who has more saintly light beaming down on her than Mother Teresa and Jesus combined. Three uncommon people who I owe the success of my first semester of college to. Where else would I be without frequent visits to Bennigan’s and the C-Store? Who else would nurse me back to health on oatmeal, and who else would let me sleep on the top bunk? Who else would watch “One Fine Day” with me, and “Four Weddings and a Funeral” without laughing at my ridiculous crying fits? I tell you, without the three of them, I’d be reduced to a pile of crying mush, destine to end up as soup or a pot pie in the Cafeteria (the contents of which are surprisingly the same).
I mean, they don’t have to mean it, because after all, they DID owe you, but still, acting in middle school was fate for them, because now you really feel as though what you have written has meant something. Not that it actually did mean something, but you feel as though it did, that is enough to get you into the writing mood again, which is almost as good as receiving chocolate unexpectedly, or being visited by surprise by a special someone. (Not to be confused with that great feeling you get when you realize that no, you didn’t oversleep, but rather have two and a half more hours-that feeling is left untouched and unmatched.)
Being in the writing mood is perhaps what brought me here in the first place. Had I not wanted to write, I do believe that my ventures in the city would have been entirely uninspiring and would have rapidly been compared to an episode of some Anime show on the Cartoon Network. However, instead I was thinking about writing, and so I wrote, and apparently wrote well enough to be accepted into Emerson College, the only college that after looking at I still wanted to attend. So here I am, in the city, with no one but a Jimmy Dean lovin’ roommate, a friend rightly deemed as an asshole, perhaps the asshole, and an RA who has more saintly light beaming down on her than Mother Teresa and Jesus combined. Three uncommon people who I owe the success of my first semester of college to. Where else would I be without frequent visits to Bennigan’s and the C-Store? Who else would nurse me back to health on oatmeal, and who else would let me sleep on the top bunk? Who else would watch “One Fine Day” with me, and “Four Weddings and a Funeral” without laughing at my ridiculous crying fits? I tell you, without the three of them, I’d be reduced to a pile of crying mush, destine to end up as soup or a pot pie in the Cafeteria (the contents of which are surprisingly the same).