I done gradgiated

Graduation ceremony last night. It lasted FOREVER! Oh well, it’s over now and I got to hang out with my second family, so that was awesome. And I made my grandma happy by going, so I did my good deed for the week. If I make one person happy a week, I’m doing good. Everyone else is so screwed until, like, Mother’s Day.

I should be walking around the house in a daze today, depressed and moaning that an era of my life has ended, I have nothing to live for, etc, etc. But I’m relieved more than anything. And, best yet, ideas are percolating again. Like ideas to write, not just stories I tell myself in my head. I’m relaxed and happy, for the first time in a long time, content just to do laundry and dishes, thinking about fixing dinner, making plans for the garden, and rubbing Zippy’s tummy (he’s laying under my desk again, helping me work).

The truth is, I hated college. I mean, I loved working with Dr. Blake on my senior project and I liked reading and learning new things, but the truth is, I can do that on my own. Always have. I can do it better now, but as far as all those friends and experiences that they talk about having in college, I could care fucking less. My best experiences were always at home or on the farm and my biggest learning experiences came from personal life, not institutions. That was why I wasn’t one of those kids up there getting service awards and all that bullshit—because I had, and always will have, a life outside of college. I think that’s what makes my writing so good; I’ve lived instead of just gone along with the rest of the class. What scares me after reading Jodi Picoult’s Nineteen Minutes is that if I had gone along with the class, or been forced to, I might have been the shooter instead of the student. Instead, I write. And I’m here, on a fine spring morning, with my feet on my puppy’s tummy.