Summertime sadness, from a collegiate perspective

Those two weeks before school begins:

Aching, writhing, loathing; bursting, grinning, cheering. The paradoxical feelings before you commit another consecutive 9+ months to an institution. I, personally, adore being educated; I could sit in a lecture hall for hours with a [talented] professor. 

And in my case, a Masters degree sits brightly on the horizon, two years down the line. Two years after many gifted and brilliant instructors, 400 hours of clinical experience and training, days of bonding with my peers and future colleagues, and endless nights of studying or crashing in the Village. I am so very excited to start in two weeks, but classes will strip me of my fleeting summertime freedoms from now until 2015. And in 2015, I will begin my career… which means…


Crash! Boom! FIRE. Fire explodes from deep within my sulci in gyri, setting my thoughts aflame. Did I just run out of young adulthood? This suddenly seems scarier than shitting my pants. 

Please press pause for a moment, and slow down the infinite spool of film from which my life is spinning away. NYU just trolled my existence.

But it’s okay, right? I’m ready for adulthood. I’m ready to spend every day, not just weekends, with the love of my life. I’m ready to raise and take care of my own puppy, and to go grocery shopping, pay the rent, make solid choices for myself… 

No summer breaks means no parents explaining your own life to you. I suppose that is well worth the sacrifice.

Summertime sadness, from a collegiate perspective

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