A Home-Schooled International Student Writes to His Mother and Tries to Understand What the Hell American College Lifestyle Is
Dearest Mother,
I write with chills in my bones and contempt in my voice. The sense of direction I thought I incurred from years of schooling has become frayed, pointless, and ephemeral. This sleep-away camp, which was promised to me as a gateway to intellectual stimulation, is nothing more than a booze-soaked exhibition in horndoggery, casting away those who seek academic guidance in favor of perpetual alcoholic incompetence.
Mother, I fear for the creatures that I am supposed to call my “peers.” They exist in an apathetic haze, each attempting to outwit each other in arrogance, assholery and whichever brain-cell murdering endeavor comes cheapest. I have seen down the rabbit hole. I have seen over the fence, onto the other side. The grass is covered in vomit, and the rabbit, drowned in it.
Those beautiful brochures. Those glistening smiles. Those wonderful tours we took that almost killed me with their aesthetics….. ALL LIES!
I have survived 30 days, each more disturbing and crushing than the last. The promise of move-in day has been replaced with the horror of the…. “SHITSHOW” that was Homecoming.
(Please excuse my language mother, but my “peers” speak with such immorality that I must question the education system we exist in. Also, what is a “J-Biebs?” It’s apparently quite popular, and the key to my understanding of this culture lies with it. )
I am saddened to say I have become fat as well, mother. The fattest of fat, mother. So fat that all that exists in my veins is pizza grease and Mountain Dew: Code Red carbonates. Perhaps the problem is not my “peers.” Perhaps the problem….
I realize what I must become mother. Think of my metamorphosis as the butterfly, and not as a phoenix. A phoenix may rise, but he remains the same. A butterfly bursts through from a cocoon, transformed and earned into the majestic creature God intended. I shall be that butterfly…. The pastel butterfly I was meant to be.
I find it difficult to explain what I intend to become. Just know, the $600 I spent at Brooks Brothers is invested well.
Warmest regards,
Your Son.
67 Days Later
Dearest Mother,
I am the butterfly! I am the truth! I am one!
I realize my finest faults are that of expectations. I expected college to understand me. I realize now that I did not understand myself. I was the one who needed to understand college.
Mother, I am becoming what I always wanted: An American college student. I am hopeful to finish within four years, but if I have to stay another year, then “Fuck IT!” (It’s what the kids say)
Mother, I’m sorry I am not sorry about my language anymore. College is a lifestyle. This lifestyle includes the language, the clothing, and the SEX. Yes mother, the sex. I realize now why my personality was so rigid: I needed the alcohol. I needed the women. I needed a “Nut Bust.” (It’s what the kids say when… Eh, nevermind)
You only live once, Mother. Thus, I have written the alphabet with grades. One “A,” two “B’s” one “C,” three “D’s” and one “F.”I do not believe I have shamed the family with these grades. As I mentioned earlier, expectations are the greatest thing I’ve learned at college. I believe you could benefit from contemplating this too, as I now realize thirty credits in one semester is excessive.
I’m disappointed you did not teach me the proper calendar either, Mother. The weekend starts on Thursday, and everybody is mandated by law to drink until they are “White Girl Wasted.“ Apparently, the African American females understand how to consume alcohol responsibly, and thus, it is not as much fun to drink like them.
I am no longer fat Mother. I have cut the sleeves off of all my shirts, and am now considered a “Bro.” Once one cuts the sleeves off their shirts, their appearance does not matter, and others are only impressed by his alcohol tolerance.
I wish I could explain the relationship between men and women on a college campus, Mother. Intelligence is valued least when courting the opposite sex, while a certain “swag” is the most attractive quality somebody can have. I have yet to find what a “swag” is, and have been unable to purchase it at my local grocery store. I will update you on this continuing search.
I have made acquaintances since we last spoke mother. Next time we speak, I’m hopeful to have friends.
Warmest regards,
Your Son.
P.S.-I am still left confused by the obsession of this country over Justin Bieber.
