Last summer, I read a memoir about meeting the Rolling Stones, working for Congress and living in Europe. This resulted in a few moments of self-hatred where I realized even my obituary, were I to have one now, would be boring.
When my aunt drove me back to school after spring break, we talked about looking for stories and how books like that memoir are written as they happen. This correlates with the clichés of living life to its fullest and the like.
While I can’t say I have done anything spectacular since 1994, I’ve been able to meet some great characters. Cue the sentimental BS.
We got a new roommate spring semester and the dynamic changed for the better. We all became a lot closer and a little less introverted thanks to Holly. To say she is outspoken is an understatement.
Also thanks to Holly, I met Coji as a friend of utility. Since making fun of his turtleneck in January, we’ve decided he has to be reverse-aging. Whenever I’m broke 20 years from now and decide to self-publish, he’ll definitely be a character.
He wears suits every day, writes all his papers on a typewriter and can be found frequenting the steps of Wehrle with a cigarette or six. One of the first things I said to him in seriousness was “you’re not real.” I still can’t decide if he stepped out of a book or “Mad Men.”
It finally made sense why I tried to compose a story about grocery store customers based on the stuff in their carts while working at the pharmacy.
Am I crazy? Probably. Am I nosy? Maybe a little. If you’ve read any of my other columns – God bless you – you might have noticed my irritating need to explain myself. Here goes.
I’m addicted to people – people who can do nothing for me and with whom I might only have contact for a minute or so. This is something I realized as I was more interested in hearing my parasitology teacher’s accounts of living in Georgia and Atlanta than bedbugs ,and when the patients at the pharmacy became more like friends than patrons.
I job shadowed for my program on Friday and found myself in the basement of St. Vincent Hospital. Some of the work was interesting. The student instructor who was showing me around explained different tests and a machine testing for blood levels of heparin.
After two hours, I realized I was in the wrong environment. The techs were funny and everything, but I want to see patients if I’m going to stay in the medical field.
The lab employees surprised me with their reaction to my considerations of changing my major to English or something related. They said that medical occupations were something to fall back on, but then admitted they didn’t know anything about English or journalism. It was the first I’d heard something besides “stay where you’re at, you’ll never get a job.”
I still haven’t made a decision except for ruling out working in a hospital lab. Hopefully summer will allow me some time to think it through. I’m grateful for my friends who stuck with me through this year, introduced me to cult films like “Labyrinth” and “Pulp Fiction” and were willing to make midnight WalMart runs. I guess some things never change.