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Fitting that some of the earliest content is from someone who has yet to taste the fruits of college, eh? This is about the penultimate summer, from someone whose only experience is nervous anticipation.

The summer preceding college. Do you remember it? A time of sentimental celebrations with the ones you grew up with. I plan to spend it in solitude – a last minute flail of self-discovery found in books and film and thought. Or maybe just an escape from people I never really called friends? More likely, an escape from those I hold too dear to relinquish this coming September. I can honestly say I will only miss one person (besides my mother). Wouldn’t you like to know who it is? I’ve no need to write the name or the narrative behind it; I already know it too well. It’s cemented in my mind from too many years of trying to forget. A month and a half, all that’s left of the entire world as I know it.

Then what? Fucked if I know. All my knowledge of the legendary first weeks of college come form nostalgic sources detailing endless carousing and meetings and casual sex. Something to look forward to? Who knows. At least it’ll be a change of scenery

As clichéd as it sounds, this is a massive reset button on my life. Where I’m headed I know no one, so now is the time for renaissance. All my countless fuckups, all the people I’ve pissed off, all the relationships I’ve forged through kindness and vitriol and pleasure: gone in one flight across the States. Hopefully I don’t screw this opportunity up as badly as I have the others.  From this fear flows the nervous energy. I know I’m preaching to the choir here – you’ve all already done it. Triumphed over the demon that is self doubt in your early collegiate conquests. But maybe you’ll remember what it is like to have no idea what you’ve got in store for you for the next four years and have pity on this poor ignorant prefrosh.

It’s the best thing to happen to me in 4 years, this separation. I am confident. If only I were so confident that I could let go – of people, of custom, of homestead.

-Kurt

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