After receiving my letter of acceptance from the admissions office of Webster University, I celebrated for all of five seconds.
Sure, I was thrilled that I was accepted into a fine institution, but at the same time, I was depressed because I would be attending a new school, and I didn’t know anyone.
Well, I knew one person: fellow carnivore and vegetarianism-bashing enthusiast, Kavahn Mansouri. But I don’t even like him, so basically I was alone.
Aside from not knowing the people, there was a lot I didn’t know about the campus. Where would I eat lunch? What buildings were my classes in? Where is the best place to park?
My first day here, I thought the parking garage was the best place to park. I drove in that morning, pulled into the first spot available, and after a George Costanza-like celebration of my parking prowess, I made the trek to class and immediately regretted my decision because it was January and freezing outside.
One would suggest that I seek the input of my peers for answers to my questions. But that would require me to talk to said peers, and that is not something that interests me. Nothing sounds more unappealing than admitting to a complete stranger that I am a moron and can’t find the library. Especially when the library is in the middle of campus and has a giant “LIBRARY” sign on the front.
Another experience I am struggling with is the act of making new friends. Much like asking for help, making friends is not something I am very fond of doing, because I don’t think I can find common ground with my fellow Gorloks.
The first bricks that are laid on the foundation of every friendship are common interests. They are what gives you and your newfound buddy a reason to talk to one another.
I am a red-meat eating, politically incorrect sports fanatic surrounded by hipsters and art majors. Can you guess how many friendship bricks I have laid? I will give you a hint: it starts with “n” and ends with “one”.
My friends outside of Webster suggested opening up my heart so I could bring my friends from Webster up from zero to one.
“Why not be friends with Kavahn?” they asked. “He seems to share your love of steak and sports.”
Although he is a talented journalist with whom I share a working relationship, I have chosen to decline his friendship. He is a soccer fanatic. How could I possibly be friends with someone like that?
“Why not join a club?”
Let’s take a look at some of the clubs at Webster.
Well, I can’t do cheerleading because I doubt I would be able wear the uniform. I haven’t fit into a skirt since high school.
Dance Club is out because I am not a good dancer, unless I am at a wedding reception or in the woods dance-fighting like Kevin Bacon.
I actually thought about Quidditch for a while, but then I heard that they don’t even fly. The Webster Quidditch players run around with brooms between their legs. That’s not Quidditch; that’s lying.
Finally, I have found The Journal and some peace on campus. I have even made friends with these people, who are passionate about journalism and committed to excellence.
They have even given me a nickname: That Guy.
“Hey, who do we want to cover the paint drying on the wall?”
“Give it to That Guy.”
It also brings me comfort knowing that this will be the last time I endure these growing pains again. I don’t think I could do this a fourth time. Webster is the third college I have transferred to in my five-years-and-counting collegiate career.
Now I know what you’re thinking: “Five years of college at three different schools? He must be some sort of handsome genius.”
You are correct on the handsome part, but I, unfortunately, am not a genius. The reasoning behind all my transfers is parallel to the reasoning behind eating gas station food or buying underwear at Goodwill: I made a lot of bad life decisions.
That’s all behind me now. I have made my final (Dear God, please let it be my final) transfer to Webster and I am confident (*dumps bag full of change in fountain*) that I will graduate from this institution.
But I shouldn’t get down on myself, right? Lots of people go to school for five or more years.
“Yeah, they’re called doctors.”
Shut up, Richard.