Scrap Paper Poetry #9: Final Final Finally Finished

Scrap Paper Poetry #9 | Stressing Out College

Final final finally finished:
My mind is numb, all brain waves diminished.
But the year is over and I can easily breathe;
Summer is here, a much needed reprieve.
For the next three months, I’m as free as a bird
And I won’t have to be forced to etch another word
Of a god awful essay or droll presentation,
I can start on my packing for summer vacation.
My hairs are a little grayer
And I’m now relying on Bayer,
But exams have been vanquished-
Final final finally finished.


Well, another year has come to a close and another summer has approacheth’d. I don’t need any excuses for my fauxetry. My brain might now be a charred lump of coal after this past harrowing year, but that ain’t gonna stop me from trying to have a kick ass summer vacation. Fellow stressed out students – rejoice! 

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Update: In Which the Student Apologizes for Falling Behind (Yet Again)

Normally, here is where I say “well golly gee, folks, long time no see” and then make a resolution against my better judgment to post more for you fine folks of the Interwebs.

(Everything except for the last six words is BS.) 

I’ve been gone awhile and, as per usual, my posting has been sporadic at best. My other blog has been receiving the majority of my attention, but I don’t even post with any regularity there either.

After this post, I’m going to disappear again. I could excuse myself because this is dead week and finals are going to follow shortly after, but you and I both know that if I really felt like updating, I’d certainly do it. Any student knows that watching paint dry can be a good enough excuse for procrastinating on homework and studying.

Can Cairn | Stressing Out College

Who says boredom can’t be productive?

So I’m not going to whisper sweet nothings in your ear and give you caressing reassurances that I’ll stop misusing you. The simple truth is that my mind is mush and I need to rediscover my motivation for writing and vomiting my ideas for you all to read. Dear Reader, you deserve better. So here’s what I’m actually going to do:

First, I’m going to find a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.

Second, I’m going to make my way through the neglected shows in my DVR (Don’t worry, Leslie Knope, I’m coming!)

Third, I’m going to sleep.

Fourth, I’m going to sleep some more.

Fifth, I’m just going to post when I’m going to post.

And that’s that. I have nothing more to say at the moment, except for I miss you guys and hope to chat with y’all more soon.

Cheers,

SOS

Meandering Thoughts on the Eve of My 21st Birthday

I turn 21 tomorrow (today, as of the actual publishing of this post). This post could have been profound, meaningful, or at the very least relevant. But it’s going to be what it’s going to be: a brief tour of the thoughts meandering about my head on this Monday evening.

Sitting in the library of my college, there’s a girl behind me speaking an Eastern European(?) language. She’s being a little loud for the likes of the woman seated across from her, but she takes no notice. And the woman doesn’t do anything more than scowl over at her. 

What does it feel like to be 21? Our society says that’s when we’re legally adults. We can be tried as adults when we turn 18, but at 21 we’re trusted to “drink responsibly” in public places. Funny, our system of rites of passage. We can drive a metal death machine at age 16, but can’t be trusted to make national political choices for another two years. We also have to wait this long before we’re able to decide whether or not that “Edward + Bella 4EVER” tattoo will stay looking good on our lower back for the rest of our lives. At 18, we can apply for an apartment lease, or to be exotic dancers, or buy cigarettes. We can even decide to tie the knot without our parents’ consent.

And then we can’t take so much as a sip of social ethanol until three more years after that. It’s really no sensible system at all.

In some cultures, we’re adults when we’re 13 or when we hit puberty – when our voices and bodies change. For girls, when we start to bleed. In this grand old culture of the U.S. of A., all we have are arbitrary distinctions. One day, you can be sent to juvie. The next day, you can be condemned to death by a jury of your peers. What a mess.

In Taiwan, where my family is from, and in many other countries, there virtually is no drinking age restriction. It may be different from social group to social group, but in public restaurants and properties, no one really gives much mind to how old you are when you drink. And is it a surprise that alcoholism here and in such countries is lower than that of the United States? When will we as a society learn that forced prohibition never sustainably works?

The girl’s quiet now. I feel self-conscious typing so loudly now.

I have nothing planned for this momentous birthday. I hear that all birthdays after this one aren’t even worth celebrating (or lamenting). Maybe the decade birthdays. How depressing. Soon, I’ll be able to go into those places with the NO MINORS signs. “Haha,” I’ll think, grinning from ear to ear, “I am no longer a minor in this society. Fiddle dee dee.”

Whoop di doo?

Seriously, when will the actual feeling of adulthood start creeping into my head? As far as I know, I’m still a kid. I’m still a wandering pup in a big wide world still looking for a warm belly when I can. Just because the invisible law of this country deems me to be an “adult,” doesn’t mean I am one. It doesn’t mean I’ll ever really feel like one.  Society’ll do all it can to pile on bills, taxes, 8-to-5 jobs, and other “adult responsibilities” to trick me into thinking I’m one. Who in our culture is truly mature? I feel like we’re all domesticated puppy dogs – a culture of unrealized wolves. It’s all a farce.

It is just way too quiet now. What is this, a library or something?

Can someone help me contain my excitement?

But look at this, I’m being such a bore, such a yumm yucker. I know I’ll have enjoy myself – if not on my birthday, then later on in life. Christ, I’ve already had a great deal of fun. There’s nothing to complain about (without getting existentially angsty). Being 21 and beyond is going to be pretty all right. Also, the quiet life sounds nice, but even moderation needs to be taken into moderation. The party-hardy and rave scene will never by my regular diet, but it sure sounds like fun to try out here and there like Grandma’s super fatty, ultra salty, so damn bad yet so damn good home cooking. We can be in danger of having too much ice cream, but we can also be in danger of having too much broccoli as well.

Here is where I sigh a sigh of resignation and acceptance. Adulthood’s going to have to be taken just like everything else. One step at a time. And what the heck do I know? I’m still a baby. I still got time to be proven right (but hopefully oh, so wrong. Hopefully.) And I’m going to put this one last thing out there, that no matter how introverted anyone is, they should soak their big toe out in the waves just once [in a while] at the very least. Really, we only live once, as the kids say. And that’s all I my wandering mind has to say about that.

So Happy Birthday, Sigmund Freud, George Clooney, and Maximilien Robespierre. May 6th is going to be a lovely day. Even if it didn’t work out so well for the Hindenburg.

Oh, she’s started talking on the phone again. I don’t feel so bad anymore.

I may have posted this before, but it’s a video worth watching at least twice.

Do you remember turning 21? And if you aren’t yet there, what are your feelings on looming “adulthood?”

Freewriting on a Lazy Saturday (Or “This is What the Internet was Made For”)

Surely, the world is still capable of creating original ideas. Or perhaps now. not. There is nothing new beneath the sun, just the same turkey with gradually different dressing. I don’t feel so bad about being uncreative, unimaginative.

This song has already played. I’ve stayed for an entire loop of the music here. Likely for two cycles. I’m leaving now.

Just kidding. I’m too comfortable.

Good God, I’m bored. Must. Find. Something. To. Do.

When a person says “I’m bored,” you know they’re doing something wrong in life.

Too much anxiety. This is why I’m writing nothing. There’s just too much anxiety. It needs to be got out somehow. No matter how therapeutic writing may be, however, it’s not nearly enough. So much anxiety, stress, frustration. Just looking up quotes both inspiration and depressing to put on the blog. Nothin’. Inspiring me to be depressed. I had one of the most vivid and insightful dreams the other night.

Might be interesting to chart the days when I go on manic writing sprees.


It’s a Saturday. There’s no need to put any effort into anything. Legitimate post coming this Monday, I promise. Happy Easter, folks. And if you don’t do anything for Easter, high five, let’s watch Breaking Bad on Netflix together.

Dead Week: I’M DOING MY BEST(ish)

I'm doing my best | Stressing Out College | stressingoutstudent

“I’M DOING MY BEST. A journal in which to prove that despite any indications to the contrary I am constantly working on myself and trying to become the very best me even though it’s a much slower and harder process than Oprah and Deepak would have me believe and while I would sometimes prefer just to swallow a pill or have a personality transplant I will keep plugging away at this infernal self-improvement thing until I’ve done so well I can come back in my next life as a golden retriever.”

One of those life philosophy/human condition themed journals you find in the non-book merchandise section of Barnes and Noble. Shallow as it might be, it still tickled my study-numbed funny bone.

I’ll be back with a proper blog post soon, I pinky swear.