A defense of normality, and sweatpants
For some people, university is a debauched rumspringen, a dizzying four-year drug-and-alcohol fueled mission of self-discovery after finally escaping all the things holding them back. Parents, boyfriend, dubious career as an artist at Subway: all in the past. Finally, they think. Finally, I can be ME. ME: person with their very first tattoo; a person who sleeps three hours a night, with three people a week. An individual.
I was not that person. And you don’t have to be either.