Stick a fork in me

After a sleepy summer in Kingston, school has once again begun and I don’t think I’ve ever been so bummed out.

I’ve tried to talk myself out of this funk. I listen to happy music like Devo every morning in attempts to cheer myself up. “Buck up, Molly Misanthrope!” I tell my droopy-faced reflection in the mirror each morning. But nothing seems to work.

See, I’ve been feeling a little abandoned these days. A good number of my friends have graduated from university and are heading out to the real world. Incidentally, they’ve all moved to Toronto, which seems to be where all of the hip, young graduates flock to seek their fortune. One friend is writing for a hip music magazine. Another is enrolled at a prestigious film school. Still another is off to teach in Asia. They’re moving into quaint apartments in the Annex, started going out for sushi and settling into seriously committed relationships. They are, in short, all making a go of it in the post-graduate adult world.

And me? I’m going through the same rotation of classes, getting ready to write the same papers, going to the same bars to see the same bands and getting drunk on Labatt 50 in my bedroom while Devo’s cover of “Satisfaction” sputters in the background. As for a significant other, I feel the Hidden Cameras make an uncannily accurate observation when they sing: “music is my boyfriend.” I mean, it’s okay. Queen’s has been rather good to me, overall. I’ve dug a little niche for myself and I’ve met many charming people.

And I do realize that the student life is an undoubtedly ideal situation when compared to the drudge and responsibility of the real world. However, I feel my graduated friends have suddenly become useful, interesting adults in the span of four months, while my time of usefulness at Queen’s is very quickly approaching its end.

Although I don’t want this to be one of those editorials that self-deprecatingly admits to “still having a lot to learn” at the end of university, the truth is, four years later I still feel pretty irresponsible. As I write this, I still have no idea when or where my first class of the day is and I can’t find my wallet.

I suppose we can ape the mannerisms of “adulthood” all we want and still have no idea what we’re doing. And yes, the grass is always greener on the other side, et cetera. And yes, I should make the most of my fourth year and not pre-emptively write it off before it’s even begun. But I look at the first-years with their generally infectious enthusiasm and I simply feel kinda old. I used to get excited about starting school. Now, I’m merely comfortable with it.

And while comfort is a pleasant enough sensation, I figure that once you’ve lost your verve and excitement for something, it’s time to move on.

Forgive the cliché, but with eight months left, I can safely say it’s already time to stick a fork in me. I’m done.

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