[Disclaimer: The word “I” is used 64 times in this post. I (66) sincerely apologize.]
So, I’m a pretty average girl. I’m a twenty-year-old college student, living all the way across the country from my family, and having a blast. Most of the time. Sometimes I’m completely overwhelmed with work, the concept of being multiple plane rides away from my parents and best friends, and the prospect of interacting with boys. What else is new? I’m a serious perfectionist who can’t deal with it when my overachiever aspirations don’t work out. I buy too many clothes and never have anything to wear. I’m in love with high heels (the higher the better), sparkly anything, and every color of nail polish. I adore doing crossword puzzles with my dad. I like to question humanity and not come up with any answers. I’m afraid of spiders even if they are dead. I’m totally and completely obsessed with grammar and spelling and will probably want to bite your head off should you make some heinous error. And for that, I apologize (unless you are a college faculty member – then you have absolutely no excuse and probably deserve to have your head bitten off by an angry teenage girl). I’ve never had a valentine. Or a date that wasn’t a complete and total failure (and most times ended up with the guy feigning sleep in the front seat of the car – don’t ask, I’ll explain later). I didn’t even have a date to prom.
This is my commentary on life, should anyone care to read it. No? Okay, well then it’s just my own personal comprehensive diary. I always wanted one of those… I have always wanted to be the kind of person who could journal. Since I was little I have always had diaries and I’ve written about crushes and friend problems and the time my brother had lice, but I’ve always only done it because I wanted to be the kind of person who did it. Not really because I actually wanted to do it. Or because I wanted to be able to read it when I was older and look back at my silly little problems and laugh at them or let my daughter read it after having a fight to show her that I do actually know what she is going through, despite how it may seem, or something like that. It was never because I had anything important to write down. I mean, I wasn’t really interested in reading about my own life, but I think I always hoped that someday someone would find my journal, proclaim it a masterpiece, and then it would magically become a worldwide bestseller, you know like Anne Frank’s Diary or something. CLEARLY, I was mistaken, because 1. I was not dealing with something like the Holocaust in my daily life, and 2. I didn’t have anything profound to say, like claiming that everyone is born good, not evil. I just wished that I could write something that had so profound an impact on so many people. I have since given up on that dream. Well, mostly.
Recently (in the shower a few minutes ago) I came to the realization that I don’t really see the purpose in writing if I am the only person who is ever going to read it. I already know what I’m thinking. So for me to write down my every thought for the sole purpose of me being able to read them over again seems pretty useless. I’ve always pondered what it means to have an “afterlife” ever since we studied ancient Egypt in first grade (this may seem like a non sequitur, but I promise it pertains to the bigger point I’m attempting to make). I’ve never believed in heaven or hell, I’m more on the “once you’re dead you’re dead” boat, but I guess there’s always the possibility. In my mind, I see an afterlife as the legacy one leaves behind – essentially, will people remember you? And if they do, how will they remember you? I have always wanted to make a difference in my life – I guess that’s really the only goal I have for my future that is a little more concrete than the rest of my so-called goals. It doesn’t matter how, but I want to do something that people (other than two generations of my own family) will remember.
I want to be important. Is that so much to ask for? I just want to make an impact on others, change their lives. I guess that’s really why I’m writing this. I want to be someone. I don’t aspire to always be average, I mean, who does? It’s not so much that I want to be famous or a celebrity, but I remember studying historical figures like past presidents and inventors and things like that in middle school, and thinking how amazing it was that there we were, sitting in a classroom, still discussing people who died hundreds of years ago. It’s crazy. Do you think they knew they would have that kind of impact on people? I doubt it. That’s who I wanted to be. Someone who made a difference in the world – someone who mattered. So here I am, writing this, trying to make what I’m writing matter to people other than my two friends who just laughed at my failed attempts at dates, trying to become someone who matters (obviously a lot less than people like Gandhi and Nelson Mandela, but you have to start somewhere, right?). Here goes nothing.