Wanted: Me, Myself, and I

This is another one of those lazy, summer afternoons when I have nothing to do but browse random xangas. In the midst of my reading, I envy the writing talent of some, disparage the lack thereof in others, and float off into metaphysical land. Except this isn’t a lazy summer afternoon;this is the day before English finals and I have yet to slap together an arguable thesis. Never mind that, there are much more important things to worry about.

Today I received my latest SAT scores in the mail and found that the College Board knew me as a jumble of numbers. My identity, in general, seems to be a mélange of arbitrarily chosen letters and numbers, adding up to a meaning I have yet to divine.

I don’t know who I am. I can tell you my vital stats: birthday, weight, height, weighted GPA, SAT scores, and whatnot. I can sort of tell you what I like: cinema, melancholy music, eating, easy puzzles, nifty ideas. But even that last list of “likes” I find hard to catalog. Notice the deliberate vagueness with which I describe myself; there are no definites, no clear-cut edges, no polished sheen. I feel like a blobular mass, moving lethargically along, picking up bits and pieces I encounter, only to ooze them out two feet later.

My identity is…

I can’t finish this sentence. I don’t know. Being in high school with people I have known for almost five years, I feel a burden of expectations upon me. My friends, my acquaintances, my classmates have already ascribed me a certain personality—a tough shell of expectations, from which I cannot and do not wish to escape. The shell is restraining, but comfortable.

This is why I almost fear college. In talking about Ghost World, a viewer commented how it “told the harshest truth of all: you drift away from your high school friends.” I’m only paraphrasing, as I have a special ineptitude in recalling quotes, but sitting here at the end of junior year, I find that a harsh truth indeed.

In my recommendation form for Steege, I said that I am ready for college because I am ready for independence. But independence is like being dropped in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and told to swim to shore. While I certainly do not want my parents hovering in a nearby boat, I don’t want to swim alone either. How do I know I can reach the shore of adulthood? What if it becomes an Odysseus-like journey except without the final triumph of returning home? I may be entranced by Circe. I may be trapped and eaten by a menacing Cyclops. I may forever stay on the island of Immaturity. My words on that form were obviously blatant lies through the keyboard.

Maybe I find defining identity such a difficult task because I am a normal, boring child. College will perhaps bring the bloom of a delayed adolescence. I will have my bad poetry phase. My anorexia and pink miniskirts phase. My barefoot phase. My punk rock phase. My femi-nazi phase. My mad scientist phase. My blank slate phase. My fashionlogie phase. My red balloons and glow sticks phase. My black eyeliner phase.

Moments of lucidity flee from my grasp. I must return to this final English assignment while some semblance of intelligence remains.