This Is Not A Thesis

One year ago today, the inspiring woman whose words you are reading right now had the opportunity to expand the minds of her peers and instructors. She pushed the boundaries of traditional academia. She challenged the stuffy, unyielding rigors of the culminating project.

She almost didn't graduate from college.

That sure sounds like my fearless, rebellious self, doesn't it? Yeah, right.

Apparently, presenting my delightful powerpoint presentation and successfully not falling flat on my face was only a part of the gauntlet I was forced to run as I defended my Undergraduate Thesis. My project inspired a "productive discussion about what it means to be a thesis" within the group of faculty members asked/forced to participate.

Soooo...what you're saying is that after approving my proposal five months earlier and allowing me to turn in a 50 page manuscript with multiple mixed up deadlines, you then argued if it was even legit? That's awesome.

Yes, I was so proud of myself and that was definitely not the exact opposite of what I ever wanted to hear.

In honor of my friends who are pulling all nighters as we speak (Actually, it's not quite 10 am, so not as we speak, but over the course of the last several nights when we weren't speaking but I was sleeping. Plus we're not speaking right now. I know that. I really do.), I have compiled a list of things which are not theses. That way, if there is any confusion at their own defenses, they can turn to me, the ultimate authority.

Please note that this blog post is now peer-reviewed. Meaning you are my peers, and you are reviewing it as you read it. Sufficient? I think yes.

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Things Which Are Not Theses

• A collection of used coffee filters.
• A demonstration of proper mopping techniques.
• A video recording of your phone alarm.
• A dramatic reading of "Total Eclipse of the Heart."
• First name alternatives to "Topanga."
• Acne cream.
• The perfect replica of your apartment...on The Sims.
• A campus wide flash mob involving bubble wrap and chewing gum.
• The 24-hour penguin cam on Discovery.com.
• Any quotation by Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.
• An interpretive dance to "The Call" by the Backstreet Boys.
• Post-it notes identifying the proper names and locations for all facial and body piercings. Clothing optional.
• A hockey brawl, complete with sweaty pads.
• A viral video of a baby who is afraid of her cat's whiskers.
• Botox.

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I hope this has clarified any confusion that my friends are facing. If not, you know how to get ahold of me. If you don't know how to get ahold of me, I probably want to keep it that way.

Reasons My 16-Year-Old Self Hates Me

Some people in this world spend their adolescence in tortured angst. They revel in breaking the rules, breaking the norm, and breaking the bank. After all, the world is there solely to serve teenagers, and yet often leaves them high and dry in the unending agony of "You just don't understand."

I had my taste of this. I wrote my poetry. I cried myself to sleep. But mostly...

I was a stuck up prig.

My greatest joy was in doing the "right" thing, even though it meant being a painfully boring individual. No reckless driving, because I was afraid of dying in a fiery car crash of doom. No skipping class, because participation points can make or break your college acceptance, duh. No makeup (for a few more years), because only girls-who-don't-keep-their-legs-closed cake on such a facade of insecure beauty. (I also didn't have acne yet. Things changed quickly.)

This week, my past self slapped me in the face. Not literally, both because that is impossible due to the laws of physics and because my past self does not believe in using violence to solve problems. (My college self almost believed in it once. The girl majorly screwed over my friend and she deserved a good slap across her pretty little mouth. I was going to give it to her, too, but then her pretty little mouth began vomiting. I held her hair. I really am a disgustingly nice person.)

These are the reasons my former teenage self loathes every fiber in my body.

I went to the gym today...for the fourth time in a week. No, 16yo me is not jealous that I almost beat her mile time (booyah!). She is angry that I ran over two and a half miles of my own volition, not under pain of a failing grade. And that I enjoyed it.

I shared a beer sampler with a friend...in the afternoon. Or didn't you know? Beer is the devil's drink, suitable only for slackers and criminals.

The words out of my mouth...are not necessarily the most eloquent of expressions. In fact, they often consist of the same word used in noun, verb, and adjective form. It's such a versatile word, I feel that it deserves this place of honor in my vocabulary. My past self believed that such words sent you to the inner circles of Hell or worse-- hurt people's feelings. Note: I have not outgrown my 16yo self enough to utter these words in the presence of my father. Or to write them on the Internet. My sincerest apologies for this circuitous avoidance of said words, but I just can't do it.

I love eating fish...and even worse...

I love eating spinach. I felt very entitled to eat only the least healthy foods in the world. My friends and I singlehandedly supported the local Taco Time. (How is it possible that one chain fast food restaurant can have better brand name root beer than the others? Nevertheless, they do.) Those things catch up to you in the form of gagging sounds from the crowd during bikini season.

I'm not pregnant. Thank the Good Lord. But 16yo me decided that babies needed to be popping out of...somewhere...about the time college was done. That way, I could have an entire softball team by the age of 40. Commence crossing legs now...

Wrinkles. On my forehead. From raising my eyebrows. In surprise, disbelief, and horror. Basically, because people are stupid. So I blame all of you.

I've never met Hillary Clinton. Old dreams involved working for the State Department. Can't you see me as a CIA agent? I can hardly make it through a French lesson and I'm afraid of grocery stores. Back away, suicide bombers. This girl's got game.

I still can't compose a list with which I am decently satisfied. 16yo me thought that 23yo me should be able to win the Pulitzer Prize. I'm working on it, ok?

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Any reasons your former, less enlightened selves hate who you've become?