I don’t know what it is about this place, but I think I might be over it.
I see the eager frosh-to-be touring the campus, and I smile, but not because I’m envious for an innocent time. Just because I know I will never have to be like them again.
I’m over the frat parties and the random hookups. I take pride in knowing that someone out there loves the real stefi, and appreciates her and misses her–whether or not a title is present. I’m over the red cups and the 30 packs drunk and split all over the kitchen floor for me to step on. I;m over tripping over the drunken guests passed out on the couches and floors. I’m over the bottles being thrown off the balcony at 4 o’clock in the morning. I’m just over it.
I’m over the beauty of this place. For although the campus is beautiful in this morning’s sunlight, how can I love a place when I know what lies beyond it’s boundaries? How can I love a place so much but hate existing in it? How can someone like me survive in a place where everything, even the building structure itself, is fake? Where people judge on a dime, and no one takes the time to get to know your last name. How can I be in a place where I cant even be me (or the person I want to be?) I don’t know where that place lies, but it certainly doesn’t lie here.
I am over feeling empty and alone because I don’t drink, scratch that, don’t get drunk every night. I’m over my frat brothers thinking I’m a loser/loner because I dont get wasted every single fucking day. I’m sick of feeling like I’m a loser if I dont go out and get drunk. If they only knew how I was when I am around people I trust, they’d probably like me better. But again, no one has taken the time to get to know the “real” me, and I refuse to be friends with people I have no respect for.
I’m sick of the sunbathers in front of Leavey. I’m sick of being looked down upon because I’d rather read my magazines than go to a frat party. I’m sick of not feeling apart of anything anymore. I’m sick of not feeling alive and real! I’m really sick of working for people I don’t respect. I’m sick of driving everywhere. I’m sick of walking around the neighborhood and feeling bad that I have a Coach bag or an iPod. I’m sick of the Row.
I’m sick of this place. I think I finally might be ready to leave, and come home. And that’s a great feeling, home, that no one can take away.
I refuse to feel bad for finally feeling good.
