When I was nineteen,
I deleted my MySpace account.
I flew by myself in an airplane.
I lived in four different rooms.
I survived three weeks of exercise boot camp.
I dropped my finance concentration.
I got rid of a scar that was older than some second graders.
I went to radiation therapy.
I became a Nerdfighter.
I read the entire Harry Potter series. Again.
I got a Twitter.
I Tweeted twice.
I got robbed.
I got fired.
I got two internships.
I got a Little Sister.
I got dumped by my Little Sister.
I got over it.
I was once again shocked by own academic achievements.
I decided to study abroad.
I grew out my hair.
I spent a night in San Francisco.
I became more fashionable.
I watched a terrible disease give an ordinary person courage any Gryffindor would envy.
I took comfort in writing.
I became passionate about things that weren’t my sorority.
I had a terrible roommate.
I had a wonderful roommate with terrible allergies.
I made plans.
I broke plans.
I made friends.
I ended friendships.
I held grudges.
I reorganized my priorities.
I had some of the lowest points of my college experience.
I resented the people around me and the decisions that led me there.
I found new, wonderful things to appreciate and experiences to look forward to.
I got excited about my future.
I got happy again.
I grew up a little bit.
I am excited for twenty.