Boots

The ironic thing about your twenties is that you're supposedly young, reckless, inexperienced, and falsely confident, all the while subjecting yourself to the fragility of hyper-criticism and rejection from crowds of like people experiencing the same feelings.

I had seemingly managed to graduate from college, marginally impressing my parents with a bachelor's degree from a mediocre, yet well-respected school, and enrolling in a graduate program for architectural studies the following fall. College was embellished as a fantasy land of drugs, random sex, day drinking parties and occasional athletics. For me, the four years flew by like an everlastingly dull dream; my only pinnacle being the adoption of my first dog in a rural part of North Carolina. My mind was over-saturated with the pressure of a pink and green social image, always maintaining my hair coloring, and forcing my way into frat parties I didn't even enjoy, but felt accomplished to have been apart of. Occasionally struck by a drunken mental break, I learned my own survival through bonding with my palm-sized chihuahua and swallowing myself in television that reminded me of home. That is to say, I rarely left my bedroom and found absolutely no pleasure in having roommates.