i get so stressed. columbia university makes you so stressed. i chose it because i think i like being stressed – no i dont, but i think i need it, because when i’m too happy for too long, i start to get antsy and unhappy. i start fearing that i’m getting boring, or that i’m stagnating, or that i’m not doing enough with myself, and i’d much rather be on the verge of tearing my hair out because i have heaped too much on my plate than to be idly pushing my soggy peas around with my fork. i am being uncharitable with the soggy peas analogy, i know, because this summer, i conducted a whole experiment that everyone told me was very impressive for such a short amount of time, and i was just bursting with creative energy – i started an essay that i’ve just finished and that i really think is something – but i was miserable, and so i guess a better analogy would be a salad. i’d much rather heap my plate with so much meat and red rice and grilled zucchini (ooh, or eggplant?) that i get overwhelmed at the prospect of eating it all than to sit with a perfectly manicured, balanced salad+avocado toast combo. i’m trying to make the foods a metaphor for nyc vs berkeley, but there’s not really a good food that represents nyc except for pizza, and pizza isn’t nearly as good for you as salad and avocado toast, and now that i’m thinking about it, i guess pizza’s a good analogy after all. i’d rather heap my plate with slices and slices, pies upon pies of pizzas with toppings so extravagant that they border on grotesque than eat salads like i’m supposed to. my mother always told me growing up that i was a greedy child, that i always wanted more than can be reasonably expected, and that’s true. she just didn’t realize that i’m willing to work for it, to put in more effort than can be reasonably expected, and i think that this willingness is what tips my hunger from greed into ambition, which i prefer because being accused of ambition feels much nicer than being accused of greed.

my roommates and my mother potter around doing pretty much the same things every day, and they seem happy. i don’t know about all of my roommates because we aren’t all that vulnerable with one another, but my mother tells me that she is content. she tells me it’s the small things. yes, it’s the small things, but i have some sort of disease that makes the small things insufficient. i cannot imagine waking up every day and playing basketball and clash royale and pool, going to class, doing okay, learning somewhat, going to the bar, and waking up the next morning to do it all over again, and the morning after that, and the morning after that, and the morning after that. even the things i like the most in the world, i cannot imagine doing every day like that. i cannot imagine waking up to read then shop then sit at a cafe to write then go to a show, all things i’d almost always rather be doing than whatever i am doing, over and over for months on end without getting listless. i think i’d last about a week before picking fights with people and myself. my mom tells me that my propensity for ennui is in my dna, and i resent that. i would like to be happy with just some basketball and clash royale.