I’ve been thinking about what I want to write about lately but have been lacking a slight audacity in some of the ideas rolling through my brain. There was a book I read sometime in my early highschool years (I cannot remember the name of it for the life of me) that was basically a modern day Salem witch trials set in some private school. In their Literature class they were required to keep a journal of their everyday thoughts, and the main character wrote about all of the people and thought provoking ideas he had in terms of breakfast food, e.g. The cereal was pretty soggy today was one of his classmates being an asshole.
Anyway, I usually think of this when I’m at a frat party or some Cal sponsored event because I’m basically living my life in this sort of code. I have this completely different life at these events. They don’t know me as a rescinded admission but as the one who knows all the drinking songs, has dichotomous skills at beer pong, and never ending criticisms of the notion of impacted majors. To them, I’m the stereotypical voracious Cal student. To me, it’s oatmeal: the doublespeak that is the foundation of my university lifestyle. Then there’s my work life, where I’m the hard working “go-getter” who knows it all, from tennis stringing patterns to POS shortcuts. It’s toast. Any sort of family related event will turn me into the fiery, sporty, youngest sibling: eggs.
It becomes a way to simplify the complication that comes with compartmentalizing all these different personalities. I know that there aren’t many I can eat in combination with another, nonetheless all of them at once. I am a menu of different offerings, that few have tried all of. There is a dissonance grounded in social interaction that few seek to be aware of. It takes a long time to go through everyone’s menu, all the while refining your own.
I’m not entirely sure where I was going with this, but I’d like to end it with how hungry I have made myself. Note to self: don’t speak in food metaphors.
