If you go to Carolina, senior year can be summed up in one sticker:
This brazen right of passage has two meanings to the seniors of UNC.
1) “Dear underclassmen: I am a senior which means I have it all figured out, and I’ve got this ‘being a Carolina student’ thing on lock.”
But once the bravado wears off:
2) “I’m a senior[?] Who the $#@! [am I, and what am I doing with my life ?]
I started the year identifying with definition one, but it wasn’t long before definition two became true
My idealistic dreams of lazy days on the quad (it’s under construction for asbestos) or nights on Franklin (my blue cup collection isn’t as impressive as I thought it would be by now), were quickly buried underneath a mountain of work and responsibility.
I can’t even commit to blocking off three hours a week for personal writing, despite my friendly calendar appointment sending me a weekly reminder. Considering I don’t even blog once a week, I probably won’t be finishing that trilogy of short screenplays I’ve been working on for approximately three years.
And while I love my job and involvement on campus, I haven’t exactly had the mental energy to start thinking about post-grad. In fact, I probably spent more time as an underclassman thinking about my future than I do now.
If that’s not a full-blown case of senioritis, I don’t know what is.
So I’m planning to use Fall Break this weekend as a time for a self inventory of where I want to be and what I want to do after I turn my tassel in Kenan Stadium.
And watch Gilmore Girls. Because if anything is going to give me much needed life direction, it’s Gilmore Girls.