Untitled
Abby Hovagimian
The number stares at me. It seems to be mocking me as it grows. 210, refresh, 212. There are 212 unread messages in my inbox. The number has never been so large, so commanding and in my face. With new messages flooding in every day, they all become a blur. “Apply here!” and “Get in touch with us today,” and “Pick your housing now.” How can dozens of schools want me to do the same thing? I thought I was supposed to pick one, but they all talk to me like I’m already theirs. These emails swirl around my head, baffling me because my future, that appears to be so obvious to these schools full of strangers, is a completely unwritten mystery to me. With answers completely unknown, my head spins and I spend many nights haunted by the sudden memory that these crucial four years that lay ahead of me are critically undecided. I sign into my email every day. I hesitate to click on that unholy tab. I know I have to. This tab on the internet is strong enough to shake me at my core. I need a few seconds to recover. I take a deep breath. With suddenly clammy hands, and a racing heartbeat I have to move on.
“Oh, I like your shirt! Is that where you’re going next year?” The same question bombards me yet again. I feel like a stereotype.
“I-uh I don’t know yet. Maybe.” I try not to waver. I fear that with enough uncertainty, my fear and insecurities will break past the dam in my brain, and the words will come pouring out. The truth about how I don’t understand how some kids are so easily committed to a school, or how I wonder if everyone gets as rattled as I do at the thought of talking about college with another curious person. It’s all so complicated. Is it supposed to be easy? Am I too focused on the money or the campus or the people? Should I lie and spare this innocent soul of the issues that plague my well being daily? Am I overthinking it? I sent my first application four months ago. Before that I was in a constant state of panic about sending that first application. I feel like I haven’t had a stress-free day since June.
Some days it is easy to forget. Well, maybe not actually forget, per se, but rather to take control. On days where I am too busy to remember or when I’m with the right people I get a brief hiatus where I control my thoughts and I control what is important. For a short couple of hours, it is like I am a careless teenager again. I forget about my financial burdens and the social pressure and the hours of work that lie ahead of me. That tidal wave of problems is never far from me, standing onshoreㅡ but sometimes I send it back out to sea for a little while. On nights with the windows down, and music that is too loud to think, or with deep conversations in a dimly lit parking lot accompanied by a pint of ice cream, and laughing until I cry (tears which are not from being overwhelmed and stressed), I am back and able to live my life. How long will it be until these days are not scarce?
Soon I will be back to writing another paper. Another essay about why I deserve a scholarship, or why I belong on this campus, is to be writtenㅡselling myself like a used car to a stranger sitting at a desk. The cursor blinks at me, taunting me. With short intervals of flashing, it drives me mad. I am reminded of all the words I have yet to write. How do you write about yourself as if you are the best candidate for a spot when you do not know the competition? What can I say about myself that I have not told so many other colleges? The cursor continues to blink, unscathed by my philosophical self analysis. The number in my inbox grows. A new shirt, or bumper sticker, or scholarship is sent in the mail. The cursor blinks. So do I. Turning the music up and giving my knuckles a cliche crack, I put my fingers on the keyboard. They might be there a while.
Abby Hovagimian
The number stares at me. It seems to be mocking me as it grows. 210, refresh, 212. There are 212 unread messages in my inbox. The number has never been so large, so commanding and in my face. With new messages flooding in every day, they all become a blur. “Apply here!” and “Get in touch with us today,” and “Pick your housing now.” How can dozens of schools want me to do the same thing? I thought I was supposed to pick one, but they all talk to me like I’m already theirs. These emails swirl around my head, baffling me because my future, that appears to be so obvious to these schools full of strangers, is a completely unwritten mystery to me. With answers completely unknown, my head spins and I spend many nights haunted by the sudden memory that these crucial four years that lay ahead of me are critically undecided. I sign into my email every day. I hesitate to click on that unholy tab. I know I have to. This tab on the internet is strong enough to shake me at my core. I need a few seconds to recover. I take a deep breath. With suddenly clammy hands, and a racing heartbeat I have to move on.
“Oh, I like your shirt! Is that where you’re going next year?” The same question bombards me yet again. I feel like a stereotype.
“I-uh I don’t know yet. Maybe.” I try not to waver. I fear that with enough uncertainty, my fear and insecurities will break past the dam in my brain, and the words will come pouring out. The truth about how I don’t understand how some kids are so easily committed to a school, or how I wonder if everyone gets as rattled as I do at the thought of talking about college with another curious person. It’s all so complicated. Is it supposed to be easy? Am I too focused on the money or the campus or the people? Should I lie and spare this innocent soul of the issues that plague my well being daily? Am I overthinking it? I sent my first application four months ago. Before that I was in a constant state of panic about sending that first application. I feel like I haven’t had a stress-free day since June.
Some days it is easy to forget. Well, maybe not actually forget, per se, but rather to take control. On days where I am too busy to remember or when I’m with the right people I get a brief hiatus where I control my thoughts and I control what is important. For a short couple of hours, it is like I am a careless teenager again. I forget about my financial burdens and the social pressure and the hours of work that lie ahead of me. That tidal wave of problems is never far from me, standing onshoreㅡ but sometimes I send it back out to sea for a little while. On nights with the windows down, and music that is too loud to think, or with deep conversations in a dimly lit parking lot accompanied by a pint of ice cream, and laughing until I cry (tears which are not from being overwhelmed and stressed), I am back and able to live my life. How long will it be until these days are not scarce?
Soon I will be back to writing another paper. Another essay about why I deserve a scholarship, or why I belong on this campus, is to be writtenㅡselling myself like a used car to a stranger sitting at a desk. The cursor blinks at me, taunting me. With short intervals of flashing, it drives me mad. I am reminded of all the words I have yet to write. How do you write about yourself as if you are the best candidate for a spot when you do not know the competition? What can I say about myself that I have not told so many other colleges? The cursor continues to blink, unscathed by my philosophical self analysis. The number in my inbox grows. A new shirt, or bumper sticker, or scholarship is sent in the mail. The cursor blinks. So do I. Turning the music up and giving my knuckles a cliche crack, I put my fingers on the keyboard. They might be there a while.