You say that Gainesville’s got no soul. Well, that sounds like a good excuse for coming home… *Mayday Parade
Tonight I did something that scares the living shit out of me. Tonight I dropped out of graduate school and decided that I’m going to move back home.
I’ve been walking the tight rope that is this decision for about six months now. I guess in many ways it’s been a long time coming. I don’t remember the last time I was genuinely happy aside from the weekends that I returned back home. They started to become all I could think about. Which weekends could I manage to request off? Would there be a point when I could quit my job all together and go home far more often? How in the world would I work it to get both Thanksgiving and Christmas off? There didn’t seem to be any clear answer. And then there was the question of journalism. I’ve come to realize that journalism and writing are two very different things. You don’t have to have a communications degree to write the next Brooke Davis. Journalism is a profession far too intrusive and pushy for me. The whole thing felt like a string of uncomfortable encounters where I was being forced to do things I never wanted to do. It was like being in high school English all over again where we’re forced to act out to Shakespeare. I was that uncomfortable. The more I have to go out in the field the less I want to. Every assignment this semester I tried to fit into someone I already knew so I didn’t have to go out and find someone random to write about. That’s not the sign of a great journalist.
So, will I look back on my life someday and regret the fact that I dropped out of a top ten master’s program? Perhaps. I’d be lying if I were to say that tonight that doesn’t petrify me. My future is so incredibly unknown, but the unknown is scary. I just have to believe that it can’t get much worse than this.
And someday, on the nights that I think about how much better my life could have been… I’ll remember how great it already was. Once upon a time Andrew McMahon changed his setlist for me and played a song for my friend on his birthday. I’ve been fortunate enough to meet him over a dozen times. I got to see Konstantine live. I met John O’Callaghan and he was the nicest man in the whole world. I told him about my tattoo and he told me that it’s the very reason he writes music. Jared from the Maine told me that my tattoo was one of the highest honors he could ever be given. I got to sit in the very first row at a John Mayer concert. I got to spend 12 days in a car with my best friends traveling the country. I was able to visit Brooke Davis’s house in person. My 21st birthday I spent watching the very last Paramore concert ever. I saw Ryan Key perform Empty Apartment and Paper Walls. When I was still a teenager I had an early entry meet and greet pass to see Alex Gaskarth. I’ve seen Taylor Swift perform Last Kiss, Begin Again and All Too Well. I watched every episode of Grey’s Anatomy in a single summer with my best friend. I’ve been in love… twice. I spent the very best of my days at Livingston. I’ll be 24 this week and I already have a life to be proud of. I’ve already had a life worth remembering. How many people can say that?