If a cow ever got the chance...

Drinking red wine and writing this. The windows are open but no breeze. The plants like it that way.

My college called me three times tonight (I have caller ID and never answer if the caller's name is "UNAVAILABLE," actually, hell, I never answer the phone anyway). It made me really sad. One of the work/study jobs available there involves sitting in a little conference room off the dining hall and cold-calling alumni to get them to donate. I never did this but a few of my friends did. They said it wasn't so bad--the alums were usually friendly and wanted all the latest gossip, such as whether Dorm X was still the hippie dorm and which teachers had been denied tenure. I am afraid I was not friendly when I finally did answer the phone... It's not the fact that they wouldn't stop calling, it's that I have bad memories of my (extremely small, liberal, expensive) college. The thought of it gives me virtual hives of regret, and necessitates either a drink or an immediate change of subject... This has only gotten worse since I graduated.

It was one of those schools that is supposed to be a life-changing experience, not just a place where you go to class. You'd think this was promo copy from the admissions office, but I know actual live people who have said things to this effect. After graduation, lots of alums are inspired to do great socially conscious things for the world and to stay in touch with their myriad weird intelligent friends...

So what, exactly, is my problem? I never felt any of that there, and I have tremendous regret. I think I could have, but I was really immature and fucked up. I was not ready to learn. Meaning that my family was basically paying $10,000 a year for me to sit around and think up ways to kill myself. (That's not what it cost, but I got tons of financial aid because the farm was doing badly, and believe it or not, I'd made a lot of money in the late 80s showing cattle in 4-H, and it all went towards college tuition. Which makes me feel slightly less guilty.)

Anyway, it was not a great time, although I'm sure it seems worse to me in retrospect. There was a whole year where I couldn't go to the dining hall (phobia about eating alone) and was living off Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and ramen noodles. I took stupid classes that I skipped half the time anyway, and wrote lots of depressive poetry. I fucked up most of my relationships by being a histrionic psycho (um, sorry about that, Outgrabe), was terrified of the professors, and didn't stop wanting to kill myself until sometime in 1998 (with two semesters left).

It all leaves me feeling like there's a big void in my life (and a hell of a lot of self-pity as you can see), because I went to an amazing school for four years and basically wasted my time there. I would give a lot for a do-over. Failing that, I just want them to stop calling me.

A lot of the people on Diaryland also seem to be in college. If you are, and are reading this, isn't there a paper you should be writing? Go the fuck to class. I'm serious. I'll hunt you down myself. Then I'll sit in on your lecture.

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