May 10, 1998

 

It’s May 10th, Mother’s Day! Hallmark holiday? Who cares! It’s time to celebrate God’s true gift to man: woman. Without ’em, I know I wouldn’t be here. I know I’ve got a mother, who seems to have infinite capacity for suffering. She even claims the band Life of Agony was named after her. Not that she knows who Life of Agony is, but it’s the effort that counts. My mom is incredibly cool, even when she cracks under stress. Don’t look at me for proof; look at my little brother. Now there’s a kid who’s got it together. I’m glad I’m off at college so they can have the apartment to themselves, without my corruptive influences.

 

And what of college? Well, things have drawn to a close with the approaching end of the year. After two semesters of stubborn foundering, I’ve discovered, with the help of Cornell’s Counseling and Psychology Services (CAPS) that I may, in fact, be suffering from depression. Yay! Now I can join the Prozac-drenched masses, right? Wrong. They’ll try to drug me, but I don’t think that’s an option. I am very strongly anti-drug. I prefer full control of my faculties at all times. I’ll take cold medicine and prescriptions, but that’s about it. No aspirin, no marijuana, no cigarettes. I like to keep my system clean. I do drink caffeinated soda, but I try to keep that down, too.

 

And so, I sally forth back into the real world, whatever that means. I always thought the entire world was real, except for what they put on MTV. Guess I was wrong, eh, Society? Shucks. I’m going home, whatever that means. I’m with Toad the Wet Sprocket when they say:

 
 

 

Oh, well. Talk to you next year. Maybe.

 

 

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