"Mom, Dad – when I grow up, I want to wear rotting corduroy pants and a newsboy cap, carry a messenger bag, live on a diet of exclusively stale Mac and Cheese and copious amounts of caffeinated beverages."
Is that what you told your loving parents when you were in Grade 4? No, I thought not.
Because no child in their right mind could ever possibly picture the cornucopia of people and things that assaults our five (arguably six) senses on a daily, if not hourly, basis here. But that’s the whole point of it, after all: the idea of attending post-secondary school is admittedly, first and foremost, to graduate with a workable degree. And get a real job! You hooligans! … indeed. But the second, and debatably more important purpose, is to gain life experience (and, if you’re lucky, perhaps a minor semblance of self-sufficiency before you graduate. That would be nice). Here we are, students all, thrust whole-heartedly into the most open and inviting world we’ve ever experienced: one that insists that, not only should we learn, but we should use that knowledge to form our own opinions, solidify our own career paths, and most of all thoroughly enjoy what we’re learning about.
(Except for stats. No one, regardless of literary proficiency, will ever convince me that I could possibly enjoy taking that course. It is utterly horrid in its entirety. Blech).
These are the golden years – this is the highlight of our lives – this is when we should be making friends, forming our own unique sets of morals and values, trying new things, going new places, voting. These are the times we should be cherishing more than anything else; not because they’re all sunshine and lollipops, mind you, but because this is the phase in our life that will shape us for everything else we make, say, go to, or do.
But is there, after all, a point to all this, you ask? Is there a reason I’m gesticulating madly from my soap box like a centipede in a muscle spasm, madly attempting to profess to you the profound nature of this monumental period? Why there is, in fact, a point – something I’ve been meaning to say for ages. Something that every student here – athlete, club member, student government leader, TA – should hear, truly listen to, and heed well. This is something every Gen-X-er, who for some odd reason happens to have stumbled upon this piece, should heed: please, for crap’s sake, all of you, will you just stop your whining already!
I’m sick of it. No, really, I am – there are points at which I honestly feel ill listening to the apathetic masses complain about the same things every day. "Do you know how many hours of sleep I got last night? Two. That’s right, two. Not four – not three – two."
"My backpack is so heavy! My back is killing me! How can a single textbook weigh this much? I can’t believe I have to haul this thing across campus every day!"
"I have a ten page paper/in class exam/take-home assignment next week. I hate papers/exams/take-homes. Why couldn’t they just give us papers/exams/take-homes instead? I mean, every other class is doing them. Why are we the only ones stuck writing/taking/doing this stuff?"
Oh ye pagan gods of heathen things. Are you kidding me? I am so sick and tired of this constant griping. Yes, your backpack is heavy – guess, what, so is everyone else’s! Oh, yours is heaver than mine, you say? Well guess what else, wonder of wonders (appalling gasp!) this isn’t high school anymore. You can’t pack a single 50-page textbook into your backpack and be set for an entire day; this is the big league, manimals and invertebroads, and not only are the majority of your books probably going to weigh about 65 pounds, they’re going to cost you that much, too. So, here’s a novel idea: only bring the ones you need. Check your schedule to see what readings there are for that week. That way, your back will be in considerably less spasm, your mouth will be flapping a little lighter, and I’ll thus be able to solidify my restraint from a tedious ‘very-nearly-throttling-you’ to ‘wow-you’re-annoying-I-hope-you-leave-soon.’
Oh – you’re sleep deprived? Poor things. How odd that a student, of all people, should be the one forgoing blissful unconsciousness. Especially odd, considering that two thirds of the total profit from the leading coffee companies is drawn from young professionals and university brats. (Okay, I made that up, but let’s be honest, it’s probably pretty close.) Do you want me to turn into your mom? You know the drill, don’t procrastinate, do your work early, plan ahead, all that jibe. Well, guess, what. I won’t. You should have realized by now that one of the governing physical laws of campus life is, in Layman’s terms, "If you don’t do it, it don’t get done."
Holy guttersnipes, hey Wow! How awful that such a concept should apply here! How terrible that I, of all people, should be responsible for digging my own grave and setting my own procrastinating corpse in it! How utterly sadistic! How completely unfair! Well guess what, boils and ghouls: that’s the nature of life. And when (by some fluke) you actually do make it out of here, despite your constant lamenting diatribe to all things scholastic, it’ll be even more fun to realize that the next time you just out and out don’t do your assignment, far from losing a couple of percentages, the higher likelihood is they’ll just straight up fire you from that poor attempt at work you call a job.
Well, that’s pretty much all I have to say. Suck it up, nose to the grindstone, chin at your forehead, all that jazz. I’m not saying life’s not tough, I’m just saying it could be a heck of a lot tougher, and there are far more important things to irritate me by complaining about than the horror your life has become now that you’re suddenly forced to be accountable for your own actions.
University is not easy – that’s what internet degrees are for – because, wonder of wonders, a post-secondary education actually has some merit in the rest of our normal lives and is more likely than not going to prevent you from cleaning the deep-fryer for the rest of your waking life. So, stop bugging me, please … I know it’s hard, but just give it a good effort.
And remember – if ever you see me coming, and for some reason you get the urge to rest your inflated head on my world-weary shoulder, just think of it this way: I don’t want pessimists, but I don’t need optimists; I just need realists. By that I mean, life isn’t sadistic, it’s just masochistic – it may still be painful, but let’s be honest, that’s the way you like it. Must be; the only one making it like that is you.
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