The Random Musings of a Social Invalid

When you’re a kid and you’re growing up, all you want is to become an adult already. When you finally reach that stage of life where you are officially a high school graduate with a mere few months before you are thrust into the real world, ready or not, the picture is significantly less rosy. In other words, take it from a veteran of growing up: when adults tell you to enjoy being a kid and having everything provided for you, take it to heart. I’ll admit that a good majority of the time I don’t believe half of the things that come out of my parents mouths’, but they occasionally spew a few good words of advice.

Before skimming through your childhood and flipping the bird to all adults who get in your way during your “know it all” years, take it from someone who has experience. I can guarantee you that within a year or two you will come to your senses and realize just how ridiculous you are. Been there, done that, and not only is your pride damaged but mothers tend to forbid you from burning photographs. Also, before thrusting yourself into the real world, be sure you know how to do your own laundry. It’s a beautiful thing when the huge pile of dirty clothes on your floor magically reappear, neatly folded, ironed, and ready to wear.

I have also found that cans that come with tabs to open them, and easy to unwrap cellophane packages are your friends. Then again, you’re probably ahead of me in that department and can open your own beverages and food. I’ll be lucky if in college I can find a nice neighbor who is willing to spare me starvation and dehydration and lend me a helping hand. I have a theory that the can openers of the world are conspiring against me in an elaborate plot to never operate properly when in my hands. I am not one of those “handy man” types that can open their can of soup with just a pocket knife. I would be more likely to chop my finger off than to successfully open the can. There would be more blood in the bowl than soup. My kindergarten teacher once urged me to become an independent problem solver. I don’t think she took into consideration that I suffer from hemophobia.

I’m not one of those great budgeting types, either. I am of the conviction that if you have checks, you must have money. I cannot begin to convey to you how traumatic the experience was for me when I realized that food does not automatically appear in your refrigerator, and that instead of it magically appearing, you not only have to make a run to your local Kroger’s, but you also have to have money to purchase your vittles.

I’m also not a huge fan of exercise or early rising. When recently visiting a college campus I was positively horrified by the amount of walking that would be necessary to even attend classes daily. They don’t even provide you with some sort of mass transit - they actually expect you to walk! Not to mention the fact that many of the classes are scheduled before noon, which is way before my usual wake up time. Not only will I have to find money for food, I will also have to manage enough to purchase an industrial strength alarm clock.

As if all of this stress wasn’t enough, I have a new man in my life. I didn’t find him, he found me, and Sir Remington Doodle is a very demanding member of the feline species. I’m fairly certain he is of the Siamese variety, but he didn’t come with any papers; in fact, upon further consideration, he didn’t come with any warning either. Speaking of papers, another expense is going to be maintaining an ongoing supply of newspapers. Not that I read it everyday, but Sir Doodle has an unusual newspaper fetish. Along with his few requirements, I am also going to have to find him a caretaker during my one year of required dorm living.

Today I received my on-campus housing contract in the mail. This prompted an immediate anxiety attack registering at least a seven on the Richtor scale. I am familiar with the concept that at least one year of dorm living greatly enhances the college experience and teaches valuable socialization skills.

Here is my dilemma: I really don’t like most people.

I realize that I am a very unfair and harsh judge of my fellow man. The problem is that little things that wouldn’t bother most people drive me up the wall. What things you ask? The color pink, improper grammar and punctuation, and people that use toothpicks. I find that most women use entirely too much perfume, which gives me a migraine headache and irritates my deviated septum. I pride myself on my alabaster skin, which many Floridians describe as “pasty,” and am oddly irritated by fake-and-bake tans. Oh, and another thing! It bothers me to watch most people eat.

Don’t get me wrong. I realize I am no one’s dream roommate. I am a self-admitted slob when it comes to picking up after myself and contradict myself by having a phobia of being anything other than immaculate in appearance. I take roughly three showers a day, which is going to cause another problem, because I have this fear of public bathrooms and the strange sounds that people make in them. Sharing a dorm bathroom with three or four other people may be out of the question.

Author’s Note: The above are random musings and rants compiled by the author and reflect her fluctuating state of mind as she prepares to embark on her next great collegiate adventure.