Architect of My Destruction

As the semester draws to a close and I see all the studio kids leave the architecture building, I am disgusted by their camaraderie and sense of accomplishment. Mostly because I used to be one of them, wide-eyed and hopeful for my future in the hallowed profession. But sadly, I left a year into the program and just one month into studio. And naturally, I am bitter now.

I miss studio. The sense of closeness among the fifty or so students. (Well, everyone else was close. I was somewhat of a leper). I miss falling asleep on my studio desk, wrapping myself in sheets upon sheets of trace paper, and scowling at anybody who dared to come near me. I miss the lofty arrogance I used to possess over my friends in other majors because I was studying to create something tangible and beautiful and they were studying rat brains or something. I miss my studio critic, who was sweet and looked a little bit like Taylor Swift.

But more than I miss what was, I miss what could have been. Right before I left, Taylor Swift said to me, "I don't want you to leave something I think you would be really good at." It kind of pissed me off that she said that instead of, "You are out, auf wiedersehen," because now I can't help but imagine what would have been if I stayed. Would I have survived the first semester and done well for myself? Would I have become the next great architect? Perhaps design a Real World house or bathrooms for Oprah.

At the time that I left, I found the studio environment to be somewhat toxic. I thought that everyone was strange, the girls in my section were all lesbians in club rugby, and it was ridiculous that people enjoyed staying in the building overnight and skipping meals just to get their projects done. Maybe through time I would've seen my peers as interesting and eclectic. And maybe through time I would have recognized studio as a semester long slumber party / extremely effective diet. And maybe, just maybe, after a long time I would grow to like lesbians. But I didn't feel like I had that time, so I left.

But mostly, it was about the work, and I can't help but wonder if I left just because things got hard. I am now majoring in finance and accounting, which is easy. While I find it somewhat intellectually stimulating and I am definitely having more fun in college, I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything worthwhile. I feel soulless, and the spreadsheets don't help. At the same time, maybe the only reason I want to go back is to have that close group of friends, feel better than everyone else, and be around gay and trendy people all the time. All bad reasons.

I guess I'm just at a place where I still can't tell if I've made the right decision. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten involved with architecture in the first place. Now I am stuck with all this knowledge about line weights, circulation, and rococo, but not enough experience for it to be useful in any way except for having a little more insight than others when watching HGTV.

And I suppose this all goes back to the common theme in my life of not knowing who I am or what I want to be. Other than not gay and not jobless.

1, 2, 3

At a house party, it is someone's idea to play "Never Have I Ever." This idea does not seem fun to me because there isn't anything I haven't done. Also, I can never remember if you are supposed to put your finger down when you have done it or when you haven't done it.

After the first five never-done-its, Tall Blonde Alcoholic is already out of the game. Everyone lies back and sighs, well that was fun. And then, wait a minute, that means he's had a threesome. Everyone assumes he's done it with two girls or maybe one other guy and a girl. But I know better.

Tall Blonde Alcoholic looks at me. I look at him, and then look away. Like they do in the movies or fragrance commercials. It doesn't look as good when I do it, but the effect is the same.

Seconds later, I receive the first of many texts, "Are you mad."

Why would I be mad? I have no reason to be mad. He did it before he met me. My response: "No." But I am mad, obviously. Because I am possessive and I like to think he has never thought about, wanted, fucked, or fuck+1ed anybody but me. (Keep in mind this is before we officially became boyfriends and I hadn't locked him in a cage under my bed yet.)

From that point, he unravels. The sweet tea vodka does not help. I drag him outside, where he begins crying.

"Everyone inside is judging me."

"No they're not."

"You hate me."

"No I don't."

"Everyone in the entire world hates us just because we're gay."

"Speak for yourself."

He continues to sob. I have a crier on my hands. He says he has nobody. I tell him he has me, which is something I've heard from a movie or fragrance commercial once. He says, "I love you so much."

I don't know how to respond to this because he is drunk and he's having an emotional breakdown so clearly he doesn't really mean it.

So I don't say anything back. And I suggest we go back inside. And I kinda wanna have a threesome now. And also eat a brownie.