I have come to the conclusion that I am not a good writer, and it really saddens me because was a passion of mine. I thought to myself, there are lots of things that I am not good at but I at least have writing. Now that has been taken away from me by this cruel institution.
My assessment of the university experience so far is fairly bleak. I have enjoyed my time here, but on days like today I really wonder if it was worth the thirty thousand dollars plus interest it will end up costing. Time will be the ultimate judge of that.
On days like today I daydream of escaping to a beach town in some tropical country that was at one or still is a British colony, so I don't have to learn another language. Once there I would establish a relationship with local eatery and trade my services in the kitchen and in the dining in exchange for a meal a day and maybe a cot in the back. And there I would spend the rest of my days, eventually taking over the hut, never changing the menu and never dwelling on the so called life I left behind.
When I cannot picture white sand beaches and clear blue water, I am forced to decide Vancouver or Toronto, leadership program or internship, telecommunications or media content. It was just over a month ago, as I spent the last of my undergraduate summer on Vancouver's English Bay, that I thought, I can't wait to be out of school. Now I wish I had never started.
Another truth is that these are just the melancholy thoughts of an sleep deprived, overworked, underpaid fourth university student who is working every night over Thanksgiving weekend. It is hard to keep an upbeat attitude when there is little to look forward to in the near future. A few short years ago I lived by the undergraduate mantra “I'll sleep when I'm dead”. Some mornings I feel like it has fulfilled itself.
Tonight I will trudge through Victoria Park, cutting across the already dewy grass, to my bar on Richmond Row. It will be empty except for the few poor souls trapped behind the bar and the unsuspecting partons who feel trapped after paying the cover charge. Together we will be prisoners of the London Tap House, a dungeon in every sense with the added misery of flashing, spinning lights, overplayed top 40 and bar classics, and high drink prices. This self imposed punishment will repeat itself on Friday and Saturday.
Usually at the end of an entry like this I would look at the positive things in my life, reaching and pulling from every possible corner, in an effort to keep me from going under completely. This time I won't. This time I will let these dark feelings take their final bow in front of a silent audience. I will let them walk off stage thinking they have finally won. But just like Toronto musicals, this one shall close too. It might have an extended run like the Phantom of the Opera, but I think it will more like the Lord of the Rings – over hyped, and quietly cut short.
