I got into a fight with my girlfriend this weekend. It wasn't anything really special, earth shattering, life- or relationship-changing. Just an argument. We didn't even raise our voices, just discussed things in conflicting tones and presentation. I could even blame it on the alcohol, if I wanted to.
Basically, she had gotten off work a little after ten on Saturday. She has no car, so I went to pick her up--nothing special. After arriving at my apartment, ennui began to settle in our brains; so we countered it with going to the Mitch's, a little dive bar about five minutes away. We had a good time, had a couple of beers, listened to some music, and tried some of these random sweet shots she had created. My girlfriend has many talents, and one of them is making tasty shots (for instance, she does something with two or three liquers called a pancake shot--it tastes just like what its namesake, and you shoot it with orange juice. Ah, breakfast drinking at its finest). I don't know about her; but, leaving the bar after consuming the equivalent of four drinks, I was feeling pretty buzzed. This is where the argument starts. See? I can blame it on the alcohol if I would like.
My girlfriend and I have both arrived at nexuses in our lives, unfortunately both of them making us somewhat unstable and transient at the moment. I am looking into choosing which law school I want to attend, after being accepted to several. She is looking into grad school for a mathematical analysis concentration: a big change in direction considering her degree is in music. Perhaps this degree of uncertainty in both our lives is what has put us together. I like to think it's more the matching of humors and personalities, but this is still probably an underlying cause.
These are both long term solutions to our lives; short-term, it's even more unstable. I am currently job less and looking for work. She works as a waitress--works for tips, as old Cotton Hill would say. This is a huge source of contention, at least for me. She's had her serving job for close to four months now, and she really enjoys it. That's what bothers me. The more she talks about it, the more she seems to be swept up in the lifestyle. I can easily see her feeling that keeping her profession as a waitress may be the easy way out.
Anyway, flash to Saturday night as we leave the bar. I can't remember how it started, but she starts bragging about the money she makes, and how it's so much more than a common desk job would make her (which is more what I am looking for). This series of comments, combined with general angsty behavior and the alcohol, gets me in the mood for the argument. I mention that I do not really feel comfortable with the fact she is enthusiastic about her as a server/bartender. I mention that her enthusiasm may lead her to staying in this situation, this arrogance and contentment with which she regards her job she has been developing ever since holding the job. She has stopped really looking for jobs that are not related to serving: jobs that may not pay much in the short term, but ones whose experience would pay off much better than the honestly low quality experience serving offers.
Granted, serving can be a pretty good job; and I respect the position, but we have to look at the situation in greater context. The girlfriend, as she has reminded me and countless others, went to a pricy and allegedly well-respected New England liberal arts college. She broods on the fact that she cannot find work that fits her background and education. She worked at an Olive Garden for a long time just to have some kind of position, and she hated it. She hated waitressing, and yet here she is. She got this job after quitting Olive Garden and being accepted to Northwestern for political science. Yeah, I know, right? Wow. She decided she did not want to go to Northwestern; and after more flailing around for a job, she finally got this job at a more upscale joint in town. Since then, she seems to be more focused on the short term, looking for more serving jobs and associating more and more with other servers. Her acceptance at Northwestern, I assume (she does not really discuss these matters with me often), has vanished. Instead, she is now trying to enroll at a local satellite school of one of the state universities.
The argument continues as we drive home and settle at my apartment. I basically am telling her she is selling herself short, and I am worrying she may be focusing more on serving than the career she says she wants. If she does not start acting, she is going to be caught in this position for the rest of her life. Hopefully, a manager job will become available sometime soon.
Her retort was that she's working on it. She's looking for other jobs, but she's going to school in the fall. I ask her if she is, really. See, the date of this argument was January 28th. I know graduate school applications pretty well, having been the whole tiring process twice. Applications should be finished by this time, and hers isn't. She's waiting on her letters of recommendation (usually you need three of them); and, while she's acquired two of them, she still isn't sure who her third request will be.
This is where I pretty much peaked in my passion with this debate. She is so focused on her waitressing job, even confirming that she will be at least a bartender throughout her time in graduate school, but she hasn't even completed her application yet! This late in the process. Her argument this time is that application is rolling. Too easy of a statement for me to refute. All of my law school applications (which were finished over a month ago), were rolling. Rolling applications typically mean you should finish them as soon as possible, not the opposite! I went to the bathroom shortly after the argument had progressed at this point, and after finishing up there the heat of the moment had passed. The rest of the night went without any trouble or anything noteworthy.
Looking back at it, I don't know whether I should feel like an asshole or not. I just feeling like we are approaching our transitions in different lights. While I am still unemployed (I am working on it), I am focusing on the long term--where I want to be in five or ten years. She seems to be neglecting the long term for immediate results and money, even if she is selling her potential short.
I probably sound like some kind of genius, but what do I know? I'm unemployed...one of those 8.5-10% that the government doesn't like. At least she has a job, and that's more than I can say.
Which one is the right path? I am suffering for the short term, but will it pay off in the end? Or am I just getting lost in pipe dreams? Should we focus more on long term happiness than the present, when situations arise such as this?
It's probably some happy medium, short term success followed with tangible long term goals. It's always some happy medium such as that. We can't sacrifice ourselves for what works now if it's not a complete solution for our lives, but we can't sacrifice our livelihoods and current options in the present for dreams in the future.
It's just something to think about.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
New bit
I’m not very funny. You ever get a joke in your head where you think “oh HEY! This would be funny”. And then you tell the joke and it’s not funny at all? That resounding silence. You don’t even get cricket’s chirping for God’s sake, just silence and a look of disappointment from your peers. Sometimes disdain. Yeah that happens to me all the time. Probably…too much. I have the unfunny joke mastered to an art form.
I was at a wedding once. Just once, I don’t get invited to too many weddings. Maybe it’s because of my bad jokes. Anyway it was one of my best friend’s weddings, and I was invited to the rehearsal dinner. I wasn’t actually in the wedding, but I was at the rehearsal dinner. Obviously I was a good friend, but not quite “in the wedding” good. So I was put at a table over in the corner with all of the “good but not quite good enough” friends. A couple of them I knew, and a couple I didn’t. And naturally, we all started drinking. We became the rowdy table. Probably a little louder than the grandma’s and grandpa’s sitting at the table next to us, at least. Well, the dinner proceeds and I have to admit I get pretty drunk. Like, saying random shit drunk. The speeches start. Nothing too special, but after two or three of them I decide I want to give one. Before this it had mostly been parents and the best man…I was the first “friend” to give a speech, though not a “great” friend. Just a “good” friend. Anyway, sorry folks, that speech was just normal. It was pretty good, got some applause, and I got congratulated for it. Nothing funny about that, except I was proud of myself for making a stupid speech. However, I guess I broke the mold because other people started giving speeches. I was pretty proud of myself, being a trailblazer and all. I also continued to drink. And eventually dessert was served. I got the chocolate cake, and…holy FUUUCK was that good chocolate cake. I ate it all like *facial gesture eating cake*. I all of the sudden came up with this idea. The couple’s name was Jon and Rebekah. This cake was amazing. They were amazing together, I gave a pretty good speech before this.
OF COURSE!!! WHAT AN IDEA!!! JON AND REBEKAH ARE AS GOOD AS THIS CHOCOLATE CAKE!! I announce this proudly to the rest of my table. They all chuckle, and that’s enough reassurance I need to give ANOTHER speech. This time just telling everyone about how good the chocolate cake was compared to this couple. I tell everyone I’m about to do it, and just as I am standing up they take me by the tie and drag me back down. I was disappointed, but I passed on fighting back and gave up on the speech.
I thought I had comedic gold, though, so after the dinner was more or less over I went over to my friends at another table. These friends were “good” enough to be in the wedding, so they sat at the long, fancy table. I told them “hey guys, did you have the chocolate cake! Oh god was it good! Listen to this! That cake was so good, I was going to give another speech about how ‘Jon and Rebekah were as good as this chocolate cake!HAHAHAHAHAHA!” See, that’s how…subconsciously, you know the joke sucks. When you have to HAHAHAHAHA afterwards. Laugh at your own joke. They didn’t laugh, so I figured, I’ll tell it again so they got the point. “Jon and Rebekah were as good as this chocolate cake…HAHAHAHAHA!” Still no applause. The more outspoken of the two says “Collin, is that your joke? Go sit back down at your table, you suck almost as much your joke”.
Yeah, fuck that guy.
I was at a wedding once. Just once, I don’t get invited to too many weddings. Maybe it’s because of my bad jokes. Anyway it was one of my best friend’s weddings, and I was invited to the rehearsal dinner. I wasn’t actually in the wedding, but I was at the rehearsal dinner. Obviously I was a good friend, but not quite “in the wedding” good. So I was put at a table over in the corner with all of the “good but not quite good enough” friends. A couple of them I knew, and a couple I didn’t. And naturally, we all started drinking. We became the rowdy table. Probably a little louder than the grandma’s and grandpa’s sitting at the table next to us, at least. Well, the dinner proceeds and I have to admit I get pretty drunk. Like, saying random shit drunk. The speeches start. Nothing too special, but after two or three of them I decide I want to give one. Before this it had mostly been parents and the best man…I was the first “friend” to give a speech, though not a “great” friend. Just a “good” friend. Anyway, sorry folks, that speech was just normal. It was pretty good, got some applause, and I got congratulated for it. Nothing funny about that, except I was proud of myself for making a stupid speech. However, I guess I broke the mold because other people started giving speeches. I was pretty proud of myself, being a trailblazer and all. I also continued to drink. And eventually dessert was served. I got the chocolate cake, and…holy FUUUCK was that good chocolate cake. I ate it all like *facial gesture eating cake*. I all of the sudden came up with this idea. The couple’s name was Jon and Rebekah. This cake was amazing. They were amazing together, I gave a pretty good speech before this.
OF COURSE!!! WHAT AN IDEA!!! JON AND REBEKAH ARE AS GOOD AS THIS CHOCOLATE CAKE!! I announce this proudly to the rest of my table. They all chuckle, and that’s enough reassurance I need to give ANOTHER speech. This time just telling everyone about how good the chocolate cake was compared to this couple. I tell everyone I’m about to do it, and just as I am standing up they take me by the tie and drag me back down. I was disappointed, but I passed on fighting back and gave up on the speech.
I thought I had comedic gold, though, so after the dinner was more or less over I went over to my friends at another table. These friends were “good” enough to be in the wedding, so they sat at the long, fancy table. I told them “hey guys, did you have the chocolate cake! Oh god was it good! Listen to this! That cake was so good, I was going to give another speech about how ‘Jon and Rebekah were as good as this chocolate cake!HAHAHAHAHAHA!” See, that’s how…subconsciously, you know the joke sucks. When you have to HAHAHAHAHA afterwards. Laugh at your own joke. They didn’t laugh, so I figured, I’ll tell it again so they got the point. “Jon and Rebekah were as good as this chocolate cake…HAHAHAHAHA!” Still no applause. The more outspoken of the two says “Collin, is that your joke? Go sit back down at your table, you suck almost as much your joke”.
Yeah, fuck that guy.
Monday, January 23, 2012
More
The absolute starting point of the summer’s events is somewhat hard to distinguish. After pondering about it for a while, I would put it on the last day of class for the spring semester of 2011. I was a graduate student at an esteemed private school in northern Indiana (as I would be for the entirety of this story), and the only class I was taking that semester was a straightforward lecture class being taught by my advisor. Unfortunately, as has become the case with me—especially during my graduate studies, my grades in the class were less than satisfactory. My advisor was the type that felt a good motivator was to intimidate her graduate students (a “tiger mom” if you will) into working harder. After both of the tests in the class, tests on which I scored below average, I enjoyed a thorough tongue lashing from her about how careless and inattentive I was. Though throughout my life I would let such criticisms as these get to me, I had been exposed to this type of attitude from my advisor for the better part of four months at this point. While I took these outbursts with stride on the outside, my motivation and confidence began to take a dive appreciably.
My advisor’s constant chiseling of my motivation and, honestly, self esteem finally reached new levels of low during my end of the class presentation. Each student in the class was to pair up with another student and give a presentation on experimental results. The class was cleanly divided between undergraduates and graduate students. The undergrads were to do presentations on these lab modules that were performed by all students, while the graduate students were to perform original experiments and present the results. I was paired with an international graduate student from the Chemistry department, and we decided our project would be something more involved with her research. While I worked hard on the project and did my fair share of the work, she had a better grasp on the theory and experimental techniques involved. We processed our data, organized a powerpoint presentation, and felt properly prepared for our presentation.
A total of five groups were presenting that day: two undergrad groups and three grad groups. The groups were to give a ten to fifteen minute presentation and answer questions for about five minutes. The undergraduate groups went first, and the questions offered by my advisor were challenging but fair. The same went for the first graduate group. Feeling encouraged by how smooth the other presentations were going, I volunteered to go next. Our presentation wasn’t the smoothest; but it went without any serious problems, and we finished in a timely manner. Unfortunately, the question period was awful. I cannot remember any of the specific questions per se, but I do know that my partner and I were scrambling for answers as my advisor swiftly and professionally dismantled our results. The questions were very complicated, and several neither of us were able to answer. I knew I was disappointing her more and more as I heard her voice get progressively more irritated. Sure, the description of these events may sound like I am being too hard on myself; however, one objective way of measuring how badly we were getting grilled was the time. While other groups were getting about five, no more than ten, minutes of questioning, we went well over twenty five minutes of interrogation before finally being let go. Naturally, the next and final group’s presentation went smoothly; and the questions and question time were much less demanding for them.
Two things were really wrong with this situation. First, if looking at my experience on its own merits, it doesn’t look that bad. Like a parent/teacher who has the unfortunate job of teaching some kind of class that has his or her child in it, my advisor may take great pride in her research group and her graduate students and wanted to work me harder than the undergrads and nonaffiliated grad students. Ok, that makes sense until one realizes that the group following mine had another grad student in her group. How was his experience? It was the same as any of the other groups. The questioning was involved, but nothing too tortuous; and, of course, the questioning period was over within ten minutes. Secondly, the embarrassing performance occurred in front of a group of about 25 people. Throughout the entire year I was getting this kind of treatment from my advisor, but it was always in front of my research group—a group of three or four people I knew fairly well. Getting this kind of treatment in front of an entire class, several who saw me as a superior considering I was the TA for the class, was more than disheartening, it was downright soul crushing.
The class was dismissed after the last presentation. I would wind up making an A- in the class, probably due more to the generosity or pride of my advisor more than my own accomplishments, but while walking out of the class I felt I was destined for a failing grade. My group mate gave me comforting tap on the shoulder and a “good job”, to which I responded likewise. I felt bad for her as well, for she would not have gone through that grilling if it weren’t for me being her partner. She was a nice girl, too, and she really worked hard on our project. Chara, the name I will give her, and I became good friends throughout working on the project; but, outside of a couple of conversations on facebook, we would not see each other again after the conclusion of the class.
The combination of letting down my advisor, my groupmate, and myself—along with the tarring and feathering witnessed by my classmates—finally broke me down. I had felt doubts on my ability to perform at the graduate level since I had started my studies, but this was just too much. I could tell my advisor was sick of me. I was sick of these disappointments. Ever since elementary school, I was always a top student. I was an All A student throughout elementary school, I graduated in the top 10 of my high school, and I graduated Summa Cum Laude at Mississippi State (granted, a big state school without the greatest academics, but I still did well). I was not used to this type of failure.
Combined with all that, I hated what I did. Every day was such a bore. I woke up later than I wanted, I went to the gym, and I worked for 7 or 8 hours on a project for which I had no vested interest in a basement without any windows or cell phone service. Seriously, I won’t get too into the specifics of how dreary my lab was, but it felt like freaking prison. I spent half of my work day killing time goofing off on my computer until it was time to go home. I would play 7-8 games of solitaire, 3-4 games of chess, approximately two hours on an internet forum discussing banal subjects such as college football (during the offseason, no less) and Jersey Shore. I was just not motivated to work, and with every passing day I realized this just was NOT what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Hell, I wasn’t even good at it. Did I want to spend my entire professional as an unhappy, mediocre scientist? No, not at all. I needed a drink.
Luckily for that last sentiment the presentation period ended in the late afternoon, right around quitting time. I sat around my office for about twenty minutes before heading home. On my way, I stopped (as I frequently would throughout the summer) at an Indian grocery store down the street from my apartment and bought a cheap bottle of Shiraz. Upon arriving home, I turned on my tv and my laptop and had the first of what would be several drinks from that wine bottle.
There was a small problem with my rapid consumption of alcohol and that day, and it’s something that I have willfully ignored until now. The girl I was seeing at the time, whom I will call Lynette, had a big oral examination the same day as my presentation. Considering the event was a big step towards her PhD, she had been stressing out about it for a pretty long time. The poor girl had expressed doubt as to whether she would pass or not.
I should give a brief synopsis on our relationship at this point. Lynette was a nice, well meaning girl who liked me; and I obviously liked her. She was a bit of a quiet girl, a biology PhD candidate who was vegetarian and very pro-environment. Her passive demeanor sort of conflicted with my more active and boisterous personality, but it wasn’t really a big deal and we got along fairly well. We had been dating for about two and a half months at this point, but problems were already beginning to show up. One of the bigger problems with the relationship was a lack of trust on my part. See, Lynette had broken up with a boyfriend of two and half years last August. Though I subscribe to the “it takes half the time of the relationship to fully recover from it” rule, I normally wouldn’t object to it much.
My problem was that…well, she still saw the guy fairly often. The guy lived in Chicago, about a two hour drive from our town, and she would visit him and his friends about once out of every three weekends. She would stay the entire weekend as well, staying until really late Sunday night before coming back to town. I never got an invitation, which didn’t really help matters out. Upon thinking about it after the fact, I am not sure how weird of the situation it really was. Maybe others experience this all the time, and I was just being stupid. Regardless, I had never had a girlfriend who was that active with a recent ex, and it made me insecure. I am not sure when I first brought it up to her, but what REALLY didn’t help was what happened when I did bring up my feelings about the situation to her. Her response was to put on a “neither confirm nor deny” type demeanor. She would just be quiet and not say much. While this wasn’t really enough to condemn her—after all, who know, maybe I was the crazy one, it didn’t really alleviate the situation much.
Last point before I go on with the story: at this point in my life I had had several girlfriends. I never had such feelings of insecurity like I did with Lynette. That’s what that made this relationship so…weird.
On my way home, I texted her asking how she had done on her exam. She replied saying she had passed and invited me out to a local bar to celebrate with a few friends for dinner and drinks. I congratulated her…and then went on with my drinking.
I didn’t drink my wine like normal, civilized people would—mostly because I didn’t own any wine glasses. Instead, I got a 32 oz. tumbler and poured about a quarter of the bottle into the glass for one “drink”. After about two of these mega glasses, I decided to listen to Lynard Skynard’s “Sweet Home Alabama”. Now, when I get drunk (which I was very close to by this point) and enjoy listening to a song, I want to hear that song over and over again. “Sweet Home Alabama” was my song for this drinking bout.
Of course, I’m originally from the South. I didn’t think too much about being from the South outside of “fat rednecks am I right?” most of my life, but once I moved to Indiana that started to change. I was actually somewhat stereotyped for my Southerness. For instance, I had to pick up a friend of a friend once for some random errand, and she marveled at the fact I drove a Toyota. “Collin, I am very surprised you drive a Japanese car”, Friendofafriend said, “I figured all of you Southerners only drove American cars”. This, along with my alleged romantic inclinations for the KKK, had a strange effect on me. I took a “haters gonna hate attitude” and, instead of allowing these subliminal insults to hurt me, I took pride in my heritage. I knew Southern people weren’t that bad, and honestly we are not really racist. At least, we are less racist than some people in other regions I’ve met (and if you are reading this and thinking “wow that’s finger pointing and stereotyping in itself” well, you are comparing your proud views to us redneck southern racists and thusly should rethink your argument). Anyway, I learned to appreciate Southern culture, and the musical stylings of Lynard Skynard—a band I already respected since I was a pretty big Southern Rock fan, were my cup of tea at the moment.
As the influence of the wine, my failure, and the southern rock continued to swirl in my brain, a weird sensation took me over. I was through with everything. I was through with graduate school, the pretentious people I had to see everyday, my girlfriend, and Indiana in general. I wanted to rage about my troubles and my new found rebelliousness, but it was hard to do this in an apartment by myself. I looked at the clock and saw it was about 5:45. I was supposed to meet those people at 630. Well, screw that! I’ll show up when I want to, which will be after about five more repeats of “Sweet Home Alabama!”. I’ll rebel with my absence!
But these actions weren’t enough for me, the world needed to know my pain. Therefore, I turned to Facebook. My first post was relatively mild. I just posted the Youtube link to the version of the Skynard song with the caption “AFTER A COUPLE OF DAYS LIKE THIS ONE LOOKS LIKE THIS WILL BE MY THEME SONG YA’LL”,and, yes, with the caps. I felt pretty confident that my message, that I had a bad day and figured I was probably close to being let go and returning to the South, was clear. After pouring what would be my final drink (at my apartment), I felt the world needed a clearer message. I typed a message saying basically “I am done. I have given what I can and I hate it. I hate what I do. I hate graduate school, I am not good enough for it. Screw this”. Looking back upon it, this status was probably my most immature facebook post I had ever made, especially considering I scoffed at people who put there drama in public on the site.
As I finished my drink and got ready to go…at 635…I started talking to several friends on facebook who had taken quick notice of this new “fuck the world” message. Most of the messages involved me “doing what I thought would make me happy” and people “supporting me no matter what I decided to do”. I especially remember one of my better friends saying something along these lines, to which I responded “Betterfriend, you know you are my best friend, right?”. Yeah…I am not sure if it was obvious I was drunk on facebook or not; but this was the first time I had really expressed a distaste for what I did so publicly, and the response was not so negative. I know that the next day, after sobering up, I would take my controversial status down. It would prove to be one of my most popular and most commented statuses ever.
I finally decided to leave for the celebration dinner at about 7, fully aware I would be more than thirty minutes late. Before leaving, I noticed I had drunk well over half the bottle. I was not in any state to drive, but I was beyond caring at this point and jumped in my car. I wasn’t sure what to expect at this dinner. I didn’t know if it was just dinner or if it was going to be a night of revelry. Sure, it was a Tuesday night, but earlier in our relationship, Lynette and I had frequently visited this bar with some other friends on Tuesdays for their karaoke night that started a little after 10. She didn’t sing, but she would watch me and the others as we made fools of ourselves. Regardless how much singing was done, these karaoke nights would typically lead to pretty nasty hangovers for the both of us the next day. This bar was pretty infamous for its burgers, and Tuesday was 5 dollar burger night, providing further incentive to celebrate a job well done at this particular bar on a Tuesday night. When I started the drive, I was ready for a wild night. As the drive and the drink inside me continued to process, however, I started to realize I probably would not survive if this celebration lasted longer than 10—let alone if we stayed for karaoke.
I parked without too much trouble and walked towards the bar. During my drive, I had received a text from Lynette saying “Just FYI, we’re in the back when you decide to show up”. The text sounded kind of rude, but I was really not in the position or the condition to be upset with her about not being polite. I located her table with ease, and was a little surprised with what I saw. Only four people were there, including Lynette. I was expecting a much bigger crowd, where my absence would not be so noteworthy.
My sober mind would probably be more capable of experiencing regret, but I was more upset with the selection of people who were there. First, we had Samantha, Lynette’s best friend here. Lynette was an alright girl in the sense that she was easy to get along with and very outgoing. Her main problem, though, was that she was extremely annoying after knowing her for about…say, five minutes. She has a tendency to dominate conversations with what she wants to talk about, and it is hard to get a word in edgewise when she is on a roll. This is even worse when she drinks, which—honestly—she’s doing most of the time. She’s a short Asian girl, so she has the tendency to get really red in the face as she drinks more; therefore, one can gauge her drunkenness and thusly her annoying level by her shade of red. Surprisingly, Samantha was just drinking water tonight since her test was later this week. I guess even Biology grad students have a shred of responsibility sometimes.
Another person at the table was Tripoli, who knew Lynette either through Samantha or just from being in the same department as she. Yes, her name is Tripoli. I guess her parents thought they’d be really clever naming their daughter after the capitol of a corrupt, obscure North African nation. She was destined for grad school with a name like that. There is really not much to say about Trips, outside of her annoying name, and that may be a testament to her bland, boring character. The only thing I really have against her is this one time I went to a potluck dinner for a member of my group. The guy was very organized, and all of the invites came on facebook. He was conscientious enough to tell people that if they were coming to announce what they were bringing on the event message board. I accepted the invitation and, being the first one to comment, said I was going to bring cookies. Being the first one to comment means and saying I was bringing cookies meant I claimed cookies. NO ONE ELSE SHOULD BRING COOKIES OR, FOR THAT MATTER, ANY TYPE OF DESSERT. Not being the best cook or even really the best friend, I go to Wal Mart right before the event and buy a huge bucket of storebrand oatmeal raisin cookies to bring to the event. I’m also one of the first people at the potluck (a surprise considering what I’ve done in the current story), so I drop off my cookies with the rest of the food and sit down to socialize. About twenty minutes later, Tripoli and her boyfriend show up. Tripoli was late because she was just getting her contribution to the dinner out of the oven before they left. What was her food? Peanut butter truffle cookies or some shit. If you are reading this and that doesn’t sound like a type of cookie, just know these three things: (a), they had peanut butter in them, (b) she worked pretty hard on them, and (c) THEY WERE FUCKING COOKIES. Thanks for not noticing that I had claimed cookies and, in the effort, making me look like a total punk, Tripoli. Naturally, since she made them herself and actually put, you know, effort into the things, people ate them instead. I was even forced to eat them instead of my own contribution, and I don’t like peanut butter. Nobody ate any of my cookies, so I had to take the whole box home with me. Well, I didn’t really complain too much since I had about a million oatmeal raisin cookies to eat for a week, but making me look like a fool didn’t really do any favors for Tripoli in my book.
My advisor’s constant chiseling of my motivation and, honestly, self esteem finally reached new levels of low during my end of the class presentation. Each student in the class was to pair up with another student and give a presentation on experimental results. The class was cleanly divided between undergraduates and graduate students. The undergrads were to do presentations on these lab modules that were performed by all students, while the graduate students were to perform original experiments and present the results. I was paired with an international graduate student from the Chemistry department, and we decided our project would be something more involved with her research. While I worked hard on the project and did my fair share of the work, she had a better grasp on the theory and experimental techniques involved. We processed our data, organized a powerpoint presentation, and felt properly prepared for our presentation.
A total of five groups were presenting that day: two undergrad groups and three grad groups. The groups were to give a ten to fifteen minute presentation and answer questions for about five minutes. The undergraduate groups went first, and the questions offered by my advisor were challenging but fair. The same went for the first graduate group. Feeling encouraged by how smooth the other presentations were going, I volunteered to go next. Our presentation wasn’t the smoothest; but it went without any serious problems, and we finished in a timely manner. Unfortunately, the question period was awful. I cannot remember any of the specific questions per se, but I do know that my partner and I were scrambling for answers as my advisor swiftly and professionally dismantled our results. The questions were very complicated, and several neither of us were able to answer. I knew I was disappointing her more and more as I heard her voice get progressively more irritated. Sure, the description of these events may sound like I am being too hard on myself; however, one objective way of measuring how badly we were getting grilled was the time. While other groups were getting about five, no more than ten, minutes of questioning, we went well over twenty five minutes of interrogation before finally being let go. Naturally, the next and final group’s presentation went smoothly; and the questions and question time were much less demanding for them.
Two things were really wrong with this situation. First, if looking at my experience on its own merits, it doesn’t look that bad. Like a parent/teacher who has the unfortunate job of teaching some kind of class that has his or her child in it, my advisor may take great pride in her research group and her graduate students and wanted to work me harder than the undergrads and nonaffiliated grad students. Ok, that makes sense until one realizes that the group following mine had another grad student in her group. How was his experience? It was the same as any of the other groups. The questioning was involved, but nothing too tortuous; and, of course, the questioning period was over within ten minutes. Secondly, the embarrassing performance occurred in front of a group of about 25 people. Throughout the entire year I was getting this kind of treatment from my advisor, but it was always in front of my research group—a group of three or four people I knew fairly well. Getting this kind of treatment in front of an entire class, several who saw me as a superior considering I was the TA for the class, was more than disheartening, it was downright soul crushing.
The class was dismissed after the last presentation. I would wind up making an A- in the class, probably due more to the generosity or pride of my advisor more than my own accomplishments, but while walking out of the class I felt I was destined for a failing grade. My group mate gave me comforting tap on the shoulder and a “good job”, to which I responded likewise. I felt bad for her as well, for she would not have gone through that grilling if it weren’t for me being her partner. She was a nice girl, too, and she really worked hard on our project. Chara, the name I will give her, and I became good friends throughout working on the project; but, outside of a couple of conversations on facebook, we would not see each other again after the conclusion of the class.
The combination of letting down my advisor, my groupmate, and myself—along with the tarring and feathering witnessed by my classmates—finally broke me down. I had felt doubts on my ability to perform at the graduate level since I had started my studies, but this was just too much. I could tell my advisor was sick of me. I was sick of these disappointments. Ever since elementary school, I was always a top student. I was an All A student throughout elementary school, I graduated in the top 10 of my high school, and I graduated Summa Cum Laude at Mississippi State (granted, a big state school without the greatest academics, but I still did well). I was not used to this type of failure.
Combined with all that, I hated what I did. Every day was such a bore. I woke up later than I wanted, I went to the gym, and I worked for 7 or 8 hours on a project for which I had no vested interest in a basement without any windows or cell phone service. Seriously, I won’t get too into the specifics of how dreary my lab was, but it felt like freaking prison. I spent half of my work day killing time goofing off on my computer until it was time to go home. I would play 7-8 games of solitaire, 3-4 games of chess, approximately two hours on an internet forum discussing banal subjects such as college football (during the offseason, no less) and Jersey Shore. I was just not motivated to work, and with every passing day I realized this just was NOT what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Hell, I wasn’t even good at it. Did I want to spend my entire professional as an unhappy, mediocre scientist? No, not at all. I needed a drink.
Luckily for that last sentiment the presentation period ended in the late afternoon, right around quitting time. I sat around my office for about twenty minutes before heading home. On my way, I stopped (as I frequently would throughout the summer) at an Indian grocery store down the street from my apartment and bought a cheap bottle of Shiraz. Upon arriving home, I turned on my tv and my laptop and had the first of what would be several drinks from that wine bottle.
There was a small problem with my rapid consumption of alcohol and that day, and it’s something that I have willfully ignored until now. The girl I was seeing at the time, whom I will call Lynette, had a big oral examination the same day as my presentation. Considering the event was a big step towards her PhD, she had been stressing out about it for a pretty long time. The poor girl had expressed doubt as to whether she would pass or not.
I should give a brief synopsis on our relationship at this point. Lynette was a nice, well meaning girl who liked me; and I obviously liked her. She was a bit of a quiet girl, a biology PhD candidate who was vegetarian and very pro-environment. Her passive demeanor sort of conflicted with my more active and boisterous personality, but it wasn’t really a big deal and we got along fairly well. We had been dating for about two and a half months at this point, but problems were already beginning to show up. One of the bigger problems with the relationship was a lack of trust on my part. See, Lynette had broken up with a boyfriend of two and half years last August. Though I subscribe to the “it takes half the time of the relationship to fully recover from it” rule, I normally wouldn’t object to it much.
My problem was that…well, she still saw the guy fairly often. The guy lived in Chicago, about a two hour drive from our town, and she would visit him and his friends about once out of every three weekends. She would stay the entire weekend as well, staying until really late Sunday night before coming back to town. I never got an invitation, which didn’t really help matters out. Upon thinking about it after the fact, I am not sure how weird of the situation it really was. Maybe others experience this all the time, and I was just being stupid. Regardless, I had never had a girlfriend who was that active with a recent ex, and it made me insecure. I am not sure when I first brought it up to her, but what REALLY didn’t help was what happened when I did bring up my feelings about the situation to her. Her response was to put on a “neither confirm nor deny” type demeanor. She would just be quiet and not say much. While this wasn’t really enough to condemn her—after all, who know, maybe I was the crazy one, it didn’t really alleviate the situation much.
Last point before I go on with the story: at this point in my life I had had several girlfriends. I never had such feelings of insecurity like I did with Lynette. That’s what that made this relationship so…weird.
On my way home, I texted her asking how she had done on her exam. She replied saying she had passed and invited me out to a local bar to celebrate with a few friends for dinner and drinks. I congratulated her…and then went on with my drinking.
I didn’t drink my wine like normal, civilized people would—mostly because I didn’t own any wine glasses. Instead, I got a 32 oz. tumbler and poured about a quarter of the bottle into the glass for one “drink”. After about two of these mega glasses, I decided to listen to Lynard Skynard’s “Sweet Home Alabama”. Now, when I get drunk (which I was very close to by this point) and enjoy listening to a song, I want to hear that song over and over again. “Sweet Home Alabama” was my song for this drinking bout.
Of course, I’m originally from the South. I didn’t think too much about being from the South outside of “fat rednecks am I right?” most of my life, but once I moved to Indiana that started to change. I was actually somewhat stereotyped for my Southerness. For instance, I had to pick up a friend of a friend once for some random errand, and she marveled at the fact I drove a Toyota. “Collin, I am very surprised you drive a Japanese car”, Friendofafriend said, “I figured all of you Southerners only drove American cars”. This, along with my alleged romantic inclinations for the KKK, had a strange effect on me. I took a “haters gonna hate attitude” and, instead of allowing these subliminal insults to hurt me, I took pride in my heritage. I knew Southern people weren’t that bad, and honestly we are not really racist. At least, we are less racist than some people in other regions I’ve met (and if you are reading this and thinking “wow that’s finger pointing and stereotyping in itself” well, you are comparing your proud views to us redneck southern racists and thusly should rethink your argument). Anyway, I learned to appreciate Southern culture, and the musical stylings of Lynard Skynard—a band I already respected since I was a pretty big Southern Rock fan, were my cup of tea at the moment.
As the influence of the wine, my failure, and the southern rock continued to swirl in my brain, a weird sensation took me over. I was through with everything. I was through with graduate school, the pretentious people I had to see everyday, my girlfriend, and Indiana in general. I wanted to rage about my troubles and my new found rebelliousness, but it was hard to do this in an apartment by myself. I looked at the clock and saw it was about 5:45. I was supposed to meet those people at 630. Well, screw that! I’ll show up when I want to, which will be after about five more repeats of “Sweet Home Alabama!”. I’ll rebel with my absence!
But these actions weren’t enough for me, the world needed to know my pain. Therefore, I turned to Facebook. My first post was relatively mild. I just posted the Youtube link to the version of the Skynard song with the caption “AFTER A COUPLE OF DAYS LIKE THIS ONE LOOKS LIKE THIS WILL BE MY THEME SONG YA’LL”,and, yes, with the caps. I felt pretty confident that my message, that I had a bad day and figured I was probably close to being let go and returning to the South, was clear. After pouring what would be my final drink (at my apartment), I felt the world needed a clearer message. I typed a message saying basically “I am done. I have given what I can and I hate it. I hate what I do. I hate graduate school, I am not good enough for it. Screw this”. Looking back upon it, this status was probably my most immature facebook post I had ever made, especially considering I scoffed at people who put there drama in public on the site.
As I finished my drink and got ready to go…at 635…I started talking to several friends on facebook who had taken quick notice of this new “fuck the world” message. Most of the messages involved me “doing what I thought would make me happy” and people “supporting me no matter what I decided to do”. I especially remember one of my better friends saying something along these lines, to which I responded “Betterfriend, you know you are my best friend, right?”. Yeah…I am not sure if it was obvious I was drunk on facebook or not; but this was the first time I had really expressed a distaste for what I did so publicly, and the response was not so negative. I know that the next day, after sobering up, I would take my controversial status down. It would prove to be one of my most popular and most commented statuses ever.
I finally decided to leave for the celebration dinner at about 7, fully aware I would be more than thirty minutes late. Before leaving, I noticed I had drunk well over half the bottle. I was not in any state to drive, but I was beyond caring at this point and jumped in my car. I wasn’t sure what to expect at this dinner. I didn’t know if it was just dinner or if it was going to be a night of revelry. Sure, it was a Tuesday night, but earlier in our relationship, Lynette and I had frequently visited this bar with some other friends on Tuesdays for their karaoke night that started a little after 10. She didn’t sing, but she would watch me and the others as we made fools of ourselves. Regardless how much singing was done, these karaoke nights would typically lead to pretty nasty hangovers for the both of us the next day. This bar was pretty infamous for its burgers, and Tuesday was 5 dollar burger night, providing further incentive to celebrate a job well done at this particular bar on a Tuesday night. When I started the drive, I was ready for a wild night. As the drive and the drink inside me continued to process, however, I started to realize I probably would not survive if this celebration lasted longer than 10—let alone if we stayed for karaoke.
I parked without too much trouble and walked towards the bar. During my drive, I had received a text from Lynette saying “Just FYI, we’re in the back when you decide to show up”. The text sounded kind of rude, but I was really not in the position or the condition to be upset with her about not being polite. I located her table with ease, and was a little surprised with what I saw. Only four people were there, including Lynette. I was expecting a much bigger crowd, where my absence would not be so noteworthy.
My sober mind would probably be more capable of experiencing regret, but I was more upset with the selection of people who were there. First, we had Samantha, Lynette’s best friend here. Lynette was an alright girl in the sense that she was easy to get along with and very outgoing. Her main problem, though, was that she was extremely annoying after knowing her for about…say, five minutes. She has a tendency to dominate conversations with what she wants to talk about, and it is hard to get a word in edgewise when she is on a roll. This is even worse when she drinks, which—honestly—she’s doing most of the time. She’s a short Asian girl, so she has the tendency to get really red in the face as she drinks more; therefore, one can gauge her drunkenness and thusly her annoying level by her shade of red. Surprisingly, Samantha was just drinking water tonight since her test was later this week. I guess even Biology grad students have a shred of responsibility sometimes.
Another person at the table was Tripoli, who knew Lynette either through Samantha or just from being in the same department as she. Yes, her name is Tripoli. I guess her parents thought they’d be really clever naming their daughter after the capitol of a corrupt, obscure North African nation. She was destined for grad school with a name like that. There is really not much to say about Trips, outside of her annoying name, and that may be a testament to her bland, boring character. The only thing I really have against her is this one time I went to a potluck dinner for a member of my group. The guy was very organized, and all of the invites came on facebook. He was conscientious enough to tell people that if they were coming to announce what they were bringing on the event message board. I accepted the invitation and, being the first one to comment, said I was going to bring cookies. Being the first one to comment means and saying I was bringing cookies meant I claimed cookies. NO ONE ELSE SHOULD BRING COOKIES OR, FOR THAT MATTER, ANY TYPE OF DESSERT. Not being the best cook or even really the best friend, I go to Wal Mart right before the event and buy a huge bucket of storebrand oatmeal raisin cookies to bring to the event. I’m also one of the first people at the potluck (a surprise considering what I’ve done in the current story), so I drop off my cookies with the rest of the food and sit down to socialize. About twenty minutes later, Tripoli and her boyfriend show up. Tripoli was late because she was just getting her contribution to the dinner out of the oven before they left. What was her food? Peanut butter truffle cookies or some shit. If you are reading this and that doesn’t sound like a type of cookie, just know these three things: (a), they had peanut butter in them, (b) she worked pretty hard on them, and (c) THEY WERE FUCKING COOKIES. Thanks for not noticing that I had claimed cookies and, in the effort, making me look like a total punk, Tripoli. Naturally, since she made them herself and actually put, you know, effort into the things, people ate them instead. I was even forced to eat them instead of my own contribution, and I don’t like peanut butter. Nobody ate any of my cookies, so I had to take the whole box home with me. Well, I didn’t really complain too much since I had about a million oatmeal raisin cookies to eat for a week, but making me look like a fool didn’t really do any favors for Tripoli in my book.
Sample of Memoir
When I come home, which only happens for
Three or four days three or four times a year
Including the December holidays
I ask my mom to scramble some eggs for
Breakfast. It’s not that I can’t make my own
Eggs, but she has a skill to create the
Creamiest scrambled eggs you’d ever taste.
Mine always come with a sponge-like texture
I cannot shake or avoid though I don’t
Regret it since hard eggs tend to make good
Dinner entrees when I don’t have any
Other plans or food to eat on my own.
It’s funny when, where I live the people
Are typically concerned with animal
Rights, health issues or food content and would
Never touch a papa johns meat lovers
Or a bratwurst even at a tailgate,
it almost ranks as culture shock to see
my mom paste mustard on to two slices
and put a piece of baloney between
them. Since this was done at night I had to
ask for what the sandwich was, “my brother’s
lunch” for the next school day was her reply.
Charming how it was to eat deli meat
Processed from the leftover pig parts
But then again I eat hot dogs with a
Fury like none other so there is no
Place for me to criticize anyone.
My favorite Chinese place was run by
Two women possibly sisters although
Their faces did not have much in common
So they may have just been business partners
Regardless one of them decided to
Go independent and start her own place.
My mom was convinced that an argument
Had taken place but I cannot rule out
That it may just be an expansion of
The (family or not) business. I was
Curious about the new place so we
Satisfied my urges and explored it.
It was practically the same as the
Old place, with changes only in the staff
And wall décor. When I get Chinese food
I mostly get General Tso’s chicken
Or some lo mein or other dish but I
Felt like something diff’rent and ate a plate
Of Singapore mei fun. My mom, seeing
This followed in a similar fashion
And ordered some red coconut curry
Content with our modest leap into an
Intellectual obscurity, we
Enjoyed our dinner, paid a modest tip
And went to the store for some groceries
The bird inside the cage sometimes sings
His only friend past long ago
Never again to spread its wings
Three or four days three or four times a year
Including the December holidays
I ask my mom to scramble some eggs for
Breakfast. It’s not that I can’t make my own
Eggs, but she has a skill to create the
Creamiest scrambled eggs you’d ever taste.
Mine always come with a sponge-like texture
I cannot shake or avoid though I don’t
Regret it since hard eggs tend to make good
Dinner entrees when I don’t have any
Other plans or food to eat on my own.
It’s funny when, where I live the people
Are typically concerned with animal
Rights, health issues or food content and would
Never touch a papa johns meat lovers
Or a bratwurst even at a tailgate,
it almost ranks as culture shock to see
my mom paste mustard on to two slices
and put a piece of baloney between
them. Since this was done at night I had to
ask for what the sandwich was, “my brother’s
lunch” for the next school day was her reply.
Charming how it was to eat deli meat
Processed from the leftover pig parts
But then again I eat hot dogs with a
Fury like none other so there is no
Place for me to criticize anyone.
My favorite Chinese place was run by
Two women possibly sisters although
Their faces did not have much in common
So they may have just been business partners
Regardless one of them decided to
Go independent and start her own place.
My mom was convinced that an argument
Had taken place but I cannot rule out
That it may just be an expansion of
The (family or not) business. I was
Curious about the new place so we
Satisfied my urges and explored it.
It was practically the same as the
Old place, with changes only in the staff
And wall décor. When I get Chinese food
I mostly get General Tso’s chicken
Or some lo mein or other dish but I
Felt like something diff’rent and ate a plate
Of Singapore mei fun. My mom, seeing
This followed in a similar fashion
And ordered some red coconut curry
Content with our modest leap into an
Intellectual obscurity, we
Enjoyed our dinner, paid a modest tip
And went to the store for some groceries
The bird inside the cage sometimes sings
His only friend past long ago
Never again to spread its wings
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