I just moved into an old funeral home; unbeknownst to me before signing the lease, my bedroom would be directly above a 20-year-old crematorium and embalming room. Nevertheless, I don’t have time to crack open a bottle of Tequila, grab a tape recorder and get all up in John Edward’s business as an extra curricular activity. I’m now an exchange student at an US College. As if living out a season of Six Feet Under by night wasn’t bad enough, by day I’m surrounded by bleached blonde, faked tanned, Victoria Secret candy pink velour track suit wearing, social media obsessed young adults.
American college is far from the American Pie movie I thought it would be; with guys running around in their hyper sexual but stoned state trying to finger bang everything that moves. The frat guys are less Ryan Gosling meets steroids, and more Zach Galifianakis looking for weed. American cinema has been lying to me for years it seems. The slither of hope are the mocha skinned athletes strutting around campus with a chemistry book under their left arm and Lil Wayne in their ears. Luckily, as part of the dietetics team training the campus athletes on performance strategies, my view on campus is never that bad.
Although all my grades are 100% (somehow) I’m sure they’ll slip by 92% once I do my exams and I’ll be unceremoniously kicking myself all the way to Washington D.C and Baltimore next month.