water under the bridge, my dear

it’s no secret that i’ve been less-than-enthusiastic about being a rutgers student, from that first rainy day that i lugged my most important earthly possessions to a small dorm room in voorhees hall in september of 2006, to today. uncomfortably crouched on my bed, listening to my roommate and her boyfriend creak around the room, performing whatever errands are on their agenda for the day. my head is playing host to the migraines i’ve now come to regard as daily visitors, and i’m all out of bread. i never wanted to be here.

i don’t doubt that there’s something fundamentally off about me, whether it’s a misfiring of neurotransmitters or some other psychological condition i’m not nearly well versed enough in to conjecture about, some malfunction that manifests itself in frequent low-grade depression and misanthropic tendencies.

not to blatantly plagiarize myself from the short story attempt i made in the ungodly hours of the morning for my creative writing class, but it’s so true: wherever i am, there i am. it’s not the locale. it’s me.

maybe it’s a predictable cop-out to blame rutgers. who could be happy here?

that’s not a fair question. it’s a matter of psychological make up. if i had my way, i would have been going to school in new york. i could allow myself to get lost within the swirling eddies of color and commotion and ambitions and grime. find some niche, somewhere. here i’m exposed, laid bare in a bland, flat town. a figure hunched in the corner.

if this is to be my disposition, i’d appreciate some sort of constant background noise to compete with my own.


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