columbia college chicago.

cooollllummmmbiiiiiiiaaaaaaa!!!!!

i like getting accepted places :) now i have to wait to here from santa cruz. but at least i know i am going to go 

SOMEWHERE!!!

g-m-g

SiiiGhhh

ghostworld,

'EWW...

oh my god, will you look at this... it's totally 

pornographic! 

Who do they think they're kidding!?

Are they really so desperate to sell cookies that they have to show a 

big dick going into a cunt on the package!?

If they were honest they'd just take a photo 

of a real dick...'

))<>((

driving empty roads and smoking empty cigarettes, 

in the car i felt like i needed to define what a relationship is for me. just to like, know. but it's not something i can define and smash into a little box and stuff under my bed. its just there. floating magically above everyone's head.

i've been really good at avoiding things and pushing people away in the last nineteen years, to pull someone towards me is new and terrifying. like i am fully incapable of acting normal. i tend to shut down.

and then i turn into a liar.

i'm on a boat:

head full of bed.

it's like there's an itch i can't scratch. i feel like i am torn between two different emotions. half of me wants to go one way, and the other another way. should i dive into the unknown or stay where i am comfortable? obviously, i should be diving. but i am terrible at diving. my legs always flop back and produce a huge splash. if i dive i want it to be a ten, perfect straight legs. 

'practice makes perfect'. fuck you. i don't want to practice, i want the knowledge to be there already.

i'm tired. elyse, i am calling you tomorrow.

eep. :// >>>>

luv;<3

it'zz meee, being a huge bitch. luver.

Portland, Oregon or Bust

It was September 18, 2007, 7:00 AM. This was it; this was my leap towards freedom. I was leaving the comfort of my parent’s home and heading off to start my first year in college.  The drive to Portland, Oregon takes fourteen hours. Fourteen hours to think about my new life: what will Portland have in store for me? Will I find my way in life? Will I find people I can communicate with? Will I be happy?

            My eyes were open, trees were zooming past me out the window, I could smell the Willamette River, and I could hear the hum of vehicles racing by. I was there, breathing in my new life. I took the elevator to the fourth floor, unlocked the door to 404, and stepped into the dingy room that I would be living in for a full year of school. “Well, here I am,” I told my sister Layna, “I hope it serves me well.” The room was uncomfortable and narrow. Even the furniture was narrow. I sat on my new, but broken in, twin bed. I felt a huge detachment from the world just sitting there. The last eighteen years of my life had suddenly been erased; none of it mattered to anyone else. All that mattered was exactly what I was at that moment in time. Then there was the whole roommate thing. I immediately disliked my roommate the moment I met her, call me inconsiderate but I had my reasons. Our very first conversation involved rushing for sororities. Um, no thank you. Not only was our room dull and gloomy to begin with, but she kept the blinds shut and heater on high 24/7, no sunlight would ever reach the inside of our four walls. And because I was two days late she rearranged the room in such away that she had far more space than I. It was going to be a long year.

            I signed up for the usual, basic first-year-of-college courses: a required freshman class, psychology, mathematics, a business course, and, my only savior, drawing. Instantly I was shoved into large auditoriums with two hundred plus students. I was disconnected from the professor. Their teachings seemed impersonal; I found no interest in them. Instead, I would stare at them, memorizing their mannerisms, drowning out their voices with the sloshing of my inactive brain. Each passing day I was feeling more and more lost. I was losing my footing. I didn’t know what I expected from college, but this was not it.

There were some days where I just couldn’t bear to go to class; I would immerse myself in socializing. I soon became enthralled with smoking weed. It seemed like the whole hall was prepared to smoke a bowl at the snap of a finger. I was no virgin at smoking the bud, but the freedom of smoking whenever you wanted took a hold of me. And this was how we communicated, stoned idiots standing in a circle trying to reach that ultimate high. Our conversations were empty, our only connection was weed, and I wanted to scream.  We called each other friends, but that was not true friendship, we pretended to care, we pretended we weren’t lying to ourselves, we pretended we were happy with every puff we took. I felt trapped; I wanted to open up their eyes so they could see the world for what it really is. I wanted to show them that it isn’t just some terribly lit alley to pass a blunt around in. But how hypocritical of me, after all, I was stoned too.

            I was falling into a deep spiral of depression. The rain was slicing me in half, but the feeling of it pounding on my skull was keeping me alive, it was letting me know I was still there. I couldn’t face the dormitories: the olive green carpets, the popcorn ceiling, the drawn curtain, and the never-ending supply of heat, all of which made me feel sick. I wanted to run away. At night I would walk the length of the city hoping it would change, hoping something new would cross my path, and hoping I could find happiness. Nothing ever changed. I knew it wouldn’t change; I was the one that had to change. I had to leave.

            It was June 12, 2008, around 5:00 PM. “We’re approaching Sacramento; we’ll be landing in a half hour. It's currently ninety degrees outside. We hope you enjoyed your flight with us on Alaska Airlines,” the Captain said over the fuzzy intercom. My heart was racing. I couldn’t retain my excitement; I could feel my face glowing and my feet were tapping in anticipation. I could feel the sun through the double paned window on my arm. The warmth of the sun was rejuvenating my soul. I wanted the sun to cover my entire body, I wanted to bathe in its rays, and I wanted to feel the heat of the pavement through my rain soaked sneakers. I hadn’t felt this alive in months. Right at that moment I knew what I wanted and I knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want Portland, Oregon. I didn’t want its rain. I didn’t want its uptight assholes. I wanted to start over. I wanted to take time to find out what I really wanted. I wanted to live again. And here I am, after a year of muddled emotions and almost a full year of clarity, my soul has been nurtured. I’ve invested thought and time into my next big transition; I know what I want to do. Portland, Oregon: bust. 

English paper assignment: you are to write a personal narrative that recounts and explores a significant transition in your own life. descriptive and narrative rhetorical modes to clearly present the situation and the way you dealt with this "conflict".

what am i doing?