Unstuck

Dear Sticky Tack,

I’m not entirely sure how to say this, or what it is I’m going to say. I just know that something needs to be said, and every time I try to tell you it never comes out right or you don’t understand me.

I know we haven’t been together that long. It was about a month ago today when I picked you up at the campus bookstore. You were by yourself on the third floor and I worked up the courage to come over next to you. We ended up coming back to my place; I took off your wrapping. You were so beautiful and soft, so blue. The way I could squeeze and knead you in my hands was exhilarating. We spent many hours together that first night, intimately entwined in each other’s presence. I was stuck on you.

But reality had to set in. I was a student and you were a mounting agent. While I read King Lear, wrote film reviews, and participated in theatrical productions, you stayed at home, quietly holding up pictures of friends, family, and a guinea pig named Sigmund. The rift was vast, but I always hoped we’d hold onto that raw energy that characterized the early stages of our relationship.

Lately, I’ve put a great deal of strain on you, I know. It takes quite a bit of strength to hold up large posters of Radiohead and The Muppets. Don’t get me wrong; I greatly admire your courage in undertaking a task of this magnitude. It made me realize how much you really did care for me, how badly you wanted to please me.

But I can tell something is wrong. You’re not holding things up with as much flair as you once did. The pictures are drooping a bit and the whole collage looks a lot less perky than it once had. What’s wrong? What happened? Did I do something? I wish you’d tell me because I can’t figure it out myself.

Take the other night for example. Some people might relish the experience of waking up to John Cusack right up in their face, staring at them; however, it freaked me out and I broke a lamp. That High Fidelity poster was supposed to stay up on the wall for decoration, not end up lying on top of me while I slept like in some sick late 80’s fantasy.

Today, things were dropping like crazy. Posters, pictures, cards, croquet mallets: everything landing squarely on my head. I’m not going to lie; it pissed me off. You have no right to abuse me like that. And don’t give me any of that crap about gravity. You could have held them if you tried, or at least given some sort of warning. But no, you let them drop right on me.

I don’t understand where this hostility comes from. Never have I cheated on you; I’m not experimenting with push pins or anything like that. I swore to you that the roll of double-sided scotch tape you found was not mine. How long will this relationship last if you never learn to trust me?

Sometimes I think this just isn’t going to work. We’re too different, and you’re not as young as you used to be. The allure of your elasticity has worn off. Plus, one day I want to have children, and I can’t risk you having a temper tantrum and inflicting multiple lesions on their silky-smooth skin. That’s why I’ve decided to buy some more sticky tack. Don’t look at this as rejection; it’s just support, emotionally and physically, like an intelligent bra. You need someone to help you hold up everything on the wall and who understands the perks of being a wallflower.

I know what you’re like. This could be the last conversation we ever have. Think about what I’m saying and try to see things from my point of view because I don’t want to come home to a blank wall with faint blue marks that’ll never wash off.

I wish things didn’t have to change between us, but they have. We need to accept that and decide what we’re going to do now. Recapturing that former excitement is probably out of the question. We know each other too well now for that kind of naivety. The infatuation has worn off and it’s time to look around and see what we have: a sticky situation.

I hope we can always be friends. It’s hard for me to imagine the rest of the year without you here to help give my abode a sense of style. Hanging out with you was always a delight, even if you never said very much. If you think otherwise though, I’ll understand. Can’t get stuck in the past; the future is one big blank slate waiting to be covered with someone else’s pictures of Johnny Depp.

Good luck in whatever you choose to apply yourself to, be it a dorm wall, classroom ceiling, apartment window, or prison cell. I know you’ll hold your own.

Your friend,

Bobby

InCOMpetence

This is it. I’ve finally made it. Nothing can stop me now. The road has been a long one, littered with bad decisions, challenging obstacles, and Capri Suns; nevertheless, it’s over. I’m going to be in COM.

The journey began when I applied to college. I was under the spell of a very powerful drug, ignorance, and didn’t really think about what I wanted to do with my life. So I chose Pre-Med because ER was a quality show at the time. It’s not that bad if you think about it; at least I didn’t use Charmed for career inspiration.

This path of science was populated by people who enjoy wearing goggles and celebrate a holiday dedicated to the mole. Clearly, I was in the wrong concentration. I tried English, but it still lacked something. I wanted to create something new to contribute to the world, not just critique what other people had already made.

Then I found the College of Communication. Here was a place I could let my creativity run wild and put up a façade of intellectual achievement at the same time. I made a solemn vow to get myself transferred.

My first step towards moving to COM was to enroll in Introduction to Communications Writing. I thought it would be fun: write some stuff, meet some people in the same boat as me, good times. But class operated a little differently than I expected.

“Do you know what a ‘verb’ is?” my teacher asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, great, here’s a sticker. Ooh, a scratch ‘n’ sniff one!”

The real tragedy lay in me being one of only a handful of people to leave class smelling like blueberries. Yet I endured the course and made my public school writing teachers proud.

Now the only obstacle in my way was a 3.00 grade point average. I decided to load up on easy courses, ones in which I could sleep, draw bunnies all over my assignments, and never take off my ipod while still getting A’s. Statistics 115, Intro to Computers, Seduction 101 (okay, fine, I got a C in that): these blessings from the Registrar brought me closer to my desired future than I had ever been. The time had come for transfer paperwork.

And that brings us up to date. I’m about to enter a meeting with a representative from the College of Communication to discuss my transfer application. In a few minutes, I will be a Film major and finally have a sense of belonging. The door opens and a man appears.

“Bobby Kennedy?” he asks. “Hey, that’s a pretty famous name. Do people ever tell you that?”
“No, never, you’re the first one.”
“Really? Well, come in.”

I enter the room and sit down across the desk from the man. He opens a folder and looks at what I assume is my paperwork.

“We’ve reviewed your application. It seems you have most things in order: a GPA of 3.00 and an A in CO201.”
“Yes, those are all the requirements, right?”
“Well, officially, yes. But this is a very prestigious institution. We have a number of other pre-requisites that do not get publicized.”
“Like what?”
“Well, our intensive background search has revealed to us that in the fifth grade you wrote a historically inaccurate story about the American Revolution in which one of your characters was a Hessian named Chad. Chad is not a German name, and therefore is an incorrect use of diction. We just cannot allow someone into this college who makes an error of that degree.”
“But-“
“I’m sorry. The decision is final. I’ve passed this information on to your advisor in the English Department. They may be suggesting Mathematics to you as a major within the next few days.”
“But that’s stu-“
“Well, it was nice meeting you. Watch out for Sirhan Sirhan on your way out. Ha ha. Get it?”

Why is this so hard? It’s not like I’m trying to cheat the system. I didn’t know I wanted to be in COM and now I do. College is supposed to be a place where you can find yourself and be educated accordingly. I know it’s my fault for applying to CAS instead of COM, but why should I be punished now for the follies of my youth? I just don’t see how forcing me to earn a degree in something I don’t want makes any philosophical, economical, or moral sense.

Alas, there’s only one thing an intelligent and composed person can do in this situation of unbearable loss and unreasonable rejection: make fun of it in the Freep. At least I can’t face any fall-out from the University over this piece. Everyone knows the administration doesn’t read The Daily Free Press; they just do the crossword.