College: It's O-Fish-e-Al

‘Ello y’alls—this is K.Wise, the Ithaca-going one of this shindig.  As you may or may not know, this whole thing is pretty much a convo between Zoë and I.  We’ll talk about random shit, pertaining to our college experiences and pop culture and all.  Expect a lot of movie quotes, Toy Story Love, and… Yeah man.

ALRIGHT, SO….

 Let’s start at the beginning, which was not shopping or ordering books or any of that shit – it was when the Target commercial featuring kids who just got accepted to college came out and for weeks I pretended I was the dude who looked like Lil’ Wayne, because it’s o-fish-e-al. For some reasons he pulled that off better than I.  Secret Wish: If I could have any hairstyle for a week, I’d probably go for the dreads.  Not the nasty kind but the cool kind, nose-ring-optional sort, that I could literally pile on top of my head.  And put a giant baseball cap over and give extra syllables to words, because shit man, I have freakin’ dreads.  Or I’d wear long skirts and a shit-ton of bangles and sandals my friend gave to me when she went to India and parade around an art fest or just show up randomly in another field, like one filled with peewee-football-leaguers and their protective parents, and stop in the center of said field, not noticing at anyone, and do a little dance, preferably with a hula hoop or one of those gymnastic ribbons, look up at an impressing cloud, and peace out of there.

Or of course put a bandana over my braids and pretend I’m Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow.  But that’s so obvious I honestly probably did not have to mention it, y’all were thinking it anyway.

THEN, THE SHOPPING.

  I divided my list to basically two places: Bed Bath and Beyond and Target.  Triple B was mostly the front of the mullet ‘do and Target (sometimes pronounced Tar’shay if you’re feelin’ fancy) was the party in the back.  Meaning at Triple B I got the shelving, body pillow, towels, those things and at Target I got the patterned dishware and turquoise clothes basket.  Honestly, that’s when it really all starts to hit, and you’re like “Damn, now that I have matching hangers, I really feel that the next step of my journey of life is going to begin.”

THEN, THE BOMBARDMENT OF QUESTIONS

Mostly, the major one.  Here is the short answer:

“So what’s your major?”

“Writing.”

Sounds like a winner, right?  So then I go into, “Well, I could go into profession writing (a wee bit better), or creative writing, I’ll try to do both, and we have to minor in at least one thing, so… I’m not really sure what I’m doing, but there’s lots of opportunities… like internships.”

Basically, if your major can be understood as a verb or activity, Lucy, ya gots some explaining to do.  I could only imagine if my major was philosophy.  See, back in the day you could do that shit, go to classes for funsies and sound ridiculous and as if college was a side job, as if the degree was just a result of your corduroy attire or super long and fantabulous beard.  But college is not just four years (or seven years, in Bluto’s case) of shit and gigs anymore, it’s o-fish-e-al.