Dear College: (A Dear John letter),

So it’s senior year, College. And there’s something I need to say. There comes a time in every girl’s life when she has to write one of these letters, be it on Facebook, text message or whatnot. It’s one of those sad, sad things that can either lift her or break her heart. It’s a letter people avoid simply because of the fact that it’s … well, hard. I’ve built my life around you, around a legacy of us. This letter; it’s disruptive. It says I’m leaving, I’ve had it, I can’t take, weather it or keep it going. I’m sick of kissing it, sleeping with it, seeing it. I want to kiss something else, sleep with something else, see something else. I want to see the world. And you – I hate to say it – you just aren’t good enough.
Four long years is a lot to leave behind, I know. You’ve invested a lot, I’ve invested a lot. We’ve disappointed each other, screamed at each other, hit each other a little too hard for it to be funny. You made fun of the way I snort when I laugh, I made fun of the way you can get way, way too drunk. You try too hard, you know that? And I know: I don’t try hard enough.
I probably had too many expectations of how you would act, when you would call, what you would say. You weren’t witty enough for me sometimes, and I probably wasn’t clean enough. Is it because I left my stuff on the bathroom floor, because I played music too loud, because I snore, that I’m telling you right now we’re over? Over. Over over over. We both knew it would happen. It may have been because you’re too freaking clean, you don’t like me picking off your plate, you try to tell me how much wine is too much.
I’ve always been too demanding, you say. Well, you’ve always been too judgmental. I know you’ll adjust to whatever comes next. You’ve seen a lot more of that than I have, a lot more people, a lot more time, a lot more everything. I liked that about you at first; your old, old, stories and ideas were thrilling. But I think this is getting tired. It’s starting to feel like you and I are a pair of socks worn two days in a row: scratchy and flat and dirty; beaten down, exhausted. Smelly.
Goodbye. I won’t say I love you, and I won’t say I hate you. I’ll say you were an exercise in … development. Growth. All the stuff they told me you would be, all the stuff they warned me about. “Don’t fall in love,” they all said. “That one won’t last forever.” But you sneaked up and bit me in the loveplace, I fell harder than I thought I would and I forgot all that naysaying and hullabaloo-ing. With you, there was so much to see! So much to do! So much to know! You and I were never meant to last forever, constant like the sun. Instead we’re one of those Fourth of July sparklers, glowing fast and bright and brilliant for one day each year: temporary, fiery, extraordinary. You are a product of my ignorance, too beautiful too keep, too imperfect to forget, a quarter life episode characterized by a passion to love, feel; burn, burn, burn.
I regret that I didn’t do some things, and that I did do some things. I regret that we got too friendly too fast, that we kissed too quickly, that we got up too early, that we stayed out too late. I regret missing extraordinary moments, losing extraordinary people, forgetting extraordinary things. I’ll keep you with me the way I keep my second grade talent show with me and my sixth grade graduation ceremony with me; I’ll keep you with me like I keep nothing else with me. And as the years fold unto each other and the bottles pile up, the suns keep setting, the plates keep shifting, I’ll look back one day and, seeing the bodies strewn in my wake, remember the good.
And when you were good, you were so, so good.
You taught me a lot, but you also taught me how to teach myself a lot. And I’ve learned this: I’m scared to leave this little comfortable love-nest we’ve got going on, but that’s life. Moving, leaving, cutting things that don’t work anymore. Knowing when to stop, say no, sally forth. There’s someone out there that’s better for me right now. And there’s a good couple thousand out there that’s better for you right now, too.
This is it, baby. Be good to all those freshman kids. And no, we can’t be friends.

Love and kisses,
Nat

– Natalie Schack can be reached at inside@huntington–news.com.

Dear College: (A Dear John letter),

So it’s senior year, College. And there’s something I need to say. There comes a time in every girl’s life when she has to write one of these letters, be it on Facebook, text message or whatnot. It’s one of those sad, sad things that can either lift her or break her heart. It’s a letter people avoid simply because of the fact that it’s … well, hard. I’ve built my life around you, around a legacy of us. This letter; it’s disruptive. It says I’m leaving, I’ve had it, I can’t take, weather it or keep it going. I’m sick of kissing it, sleeping with it, seeing it. I want to kiss something else, sleep with something else, see something else. I want to see the world. And you – I hate to say it – you just aren’t good enough.
Four long years is a lot to leave behind, I know. You’ve invested a lot, I’ve invested a lot. We’ve disappointed each other, screamed at each other, hit each other a little too hard for it to be funny. You made fun of the way I snort when I laugh, I made fun of the way you can get way, way too drunk. You try too hard, you know that? And I know: I don’t try hard enough.
I probably had too many expectations of how you would act, when you would call, what you would say. You weren’t witty enough for me sometimes, and I probably wasn’t clean enough. Is it because I left my stuff on the bathroom floor, because I played music too loud, because I snore, that I’m telling you right now we’re over? Over. Over over over. We both knew it would happen. It may have been because you’re too freaking clean, you don’t like me picking off your plate, you try to tell me how much wine is too much.
I’ve always been too demanding, you say. Well, you’ve always been too judgmental. I know you’ll adjust to whatever comes next. You’ve seen a lot more of that than I have, a lot more people, a lot more time, a lot more everything. I liked that about you at first; your old, old, stories and ideas were thrilling. But I think this is getting tired. It’s starting to feel like you and I are a pair of socks worn two days in a row: scratchy and flat and dirty; beaten down, exhausted. Smelly.
Goodbye. I won’t say I love you, and I won’t say I hate you. I’ll say you were an exercise in … development. Growth. All the stuff they told me you would be, all the stuff they warned me about. “Don’t fall in love,” they all said. “That one won’t last forever.” But you sneaked up and bit me in the loveplace, I fell harder than I thought I would and I forgot all that naysaying and hullabaloo-ing. With you, there was so much to see! So much to do! So much to know! You and I were never meant to last forever, constant like the sun. Instead we’re one of those Fourth of July sparklers, glowing fast and bright and brilliant for one day each year: temporary, fiery, extraordinary. You are a product of my ignorance, too beautiful too keep, too imperfect to forget, a quarter life episode characterized by a passion to love, feel; burn, burn, burn.
I regret that I didn’t do some things, and that I did do some things. I regret that we got too friendly too fast, that we kissed too quickly, that we got up too early, that we stayed out too late. I regret missing extraordinary moments, losing extraordinary people, forgetting extraordinary things. I’ll keep you with me the way I keep my second grade talent show with me and my sixth grade graduation ceremony with me; I’ll keep you with me like I keep nothing else with me. And as the years fold unto each other and the bottles pile up, the suns keep setting, the plates keep shifting, I’ll look back one day and, seeing the bodies strewn in my wake, remember the good.
And when you were good, you were so, so good.
You taught me a lot, but you also taught me how to teach myself a lot. And I’ve learned this: I’m scared to leave this little comfortable love-nest we’ve got going on, but that’s life. Moving, leaving, cutting things that don’t work anymore. Knowing when to stop, say no, sally forth. There’s someone out there that’s better for me right now. And there’s a good couple thousand out there that’s better for you right now, too.
This is it, baby. Be good to all those freshman kids. And no, we can’t be friends.

Love and kisses,
Nat

– Natalie Schack can be reached at inside@huntington–news.com.