**Flashback**
Butterflies filled my stomach as I held a neatly folded campus map in my hand. I was ecstatic when my 9th-grade counselor told me that I was accepted into their CEFYS program (Computer Engineering for Youth Students.) Out of 476 applicants, I was the only one accepted. I was given a placement exam and received a perfect score, graduating high school at the age of 14.
Whitman College was less than a mile away from my high school. I was informed that I would be starting my bachelors there in an advanced program based on my test scores, the tuition fully paid for.
I looked around the campus, intimidated by the older students who looked to be in their early to mid-20s. I clutched onto my black backpack and quickened my pace. I made sure to pull my sleeves down to hide the bruises that marked my arms.
I stepped into the small classroom, taking a seat in the back to avoid the already unwelcoming stares from other students. I grabbed the hood of my black sweatshirt and pulled it over my head, a habit I had when I just wanted to disappear.
"You lost kid?" A man with a full beard asked me as he walked past. Tattoos covered his neck and face, only adding to his intimidating appearance.
"I-I, um..." I stuttered and looked down at my hands.
"The middle school is a little further away from here. This is Whitman College kid." He said skeptically, raising his pierced eyebrow.
"I-I'm here for C-Computer Programming 189." I managed to say, but it sounded more like a whisper than a statement. He gave me one last look before he left to the front of the room.
A few minutes later, an older woman entered and took a seat at the front of the classroom. She cleared her throat to get the class's attention. She was gorgeous. She had ocean blue eyes, and soft features. Her nose was slightly upturned. She was a tiny woman, about 5'2. She was well put together, perfectly manicured nails, her wavy dark brown hair falling to her shoulders. Her outfit was pristinely ironed and neat.
"My name is Miss Jones, I am your instructor for the course. Before we have our speaker come up, please open your laptops and log onto my course site: passcode is WC189. If you do not have a laptop, please raise your hand." She stated, her voice had a hint of an intimidating foreign accent.
Embarrassment flooded over me once I realized that I was the only one without a laptop.
Miss Jones walked up to me with a used laptop in her hand, a standard Dell with a large sticker of "Whitman College" logo on the front. She smiled at me and handed me the laptop.
"You can borrow that for the semester. I trust you'll return it." She whispered to me and smiled.
I gave her a small smile back, and ran my fingers across the logo. This was the first laptop I've ever held.
After explaining the syllabus in detail, a college recruiter made his way to the front to talk to us about our programs for our masters degrees. I listened intently as he explained the top colleges for Computer Engineering. His PowerPoint showed slides of MIT, Harvard, Stevens Institute of Technology, and my heart stopped when pictures of Stanford's campus graced the projector.
It was beautiful, absolutely breathtaking. The grass courtyard adorned with crimson and white flowers. The programs were exceptional, and the architecture was slightly rustic. The dorms looked incredible, with two comfortable-looking twin beds inside with a closet.
My 14-year-old year heart swelled with hope and visions of my future.
I knew at that moment, that I was going to do whatever it took to get into Stanford University. That is where I will create something of myself. That is where my dreams will come true.
The campus is perfect.
The dorms will be perfect.
The students will be perfect.
The professors will be perfect.
The University is perfect.
It'll all be perfect.
*************************************************
Fuck this shitty campus.
Fuck this shitty dorm.
Fuck these asshole students.
Fuck these incompetent professors.
Fuck this prestigious university.
Fuck my life.
I stared at my dorm ceiling, counting the cracks in the cement as my mind buzzed with thoughts, the sunlight barely making it through the blackout curtains.
I couldn't sleep last night. I spent the entire evening held captive by my mind. My back was stiff from laying on this horrific excuse for a bed. Most nights I slept on the floor, seeing that it was more comfortable than this twin-sized piece of shit.
Happy fucking Thanksgiving to me.
$308,793. Three hundred eight fucking thousand, seven hundred ninety-three motherfucking dollars.
The absurd number kept repeating itself over and over again in my head. I've never even had more than $100 in my bank account. The only way I could eat was from the scholarships giving me $75 a week for food and necessities, which hardly covered anything.
How the hell did I end up here? Thinking that my life would be any better coming to this shit show of a University was the worst mistake I could have made. Come to think of it, I could have gone to any University and it wouldn't have made a difference, my life would be just as shitty and pathetic.
On paper I did everything right. I went to school, graduated early, finished my bachelors by 18, working on my masters at Stanford, and my IQ has me labeled as a "genius". But outside of academics, my life was a complete and utter shit show.
I could easily get a job, but due to my overloaded class schedule, it was impossible to handle a 40-hour-a-week job and an 18-credit school schedule. I've always believed that money is the root of all evil, when on the contrary, lack of money is the root of all evil. I've never seen anyone who was filthy fucking rich worry about anything I'm struggling with.
What would even happen after my masters? I have no experience in my field because my hectic school schedule wouldn't allow it. If anything, I can get an entry-level job keeping me below the poverty line, get told what to do by some uneducated asshole who has the authority to boss me around because of seniority, and if I'm lucky, climb the corporate pyramid to a managerial position until I hit a cap on my income and retire when most of my life is over at the youthful age of 65 with the hopes that I paid into a good pension plan and have enough saved up to barely survive.
Such a bright fucking future.
Society always paints the picture of what your life should look like: a family that loves and encourages you, friends that have your back no matter what, a stable job making enough money to put food on the table and a roof over your head.
But growing up in an abusive home with a drug-addicted father, my mother being diagnosed with cancer, constant bullying without a single person to call a friend (besides teachers and librarians that pitied me), and constantly living in poverty, I realized that society and media idealize a bullshit picture of what life is meant to be like, refusing to show what life really is.
But I refuse to be a useless victim. I survived, I fucking survived. I thought it would get better being here, at the University that I dreamed of attending since I was 14,yet here I am. Doing everything right and still not being good enough to make a difference.
I couldn't help but laugh at the cosmic joke that is my life. With the events that happened today, I could feel the last remaining shred of humanity I had left slip away into nothingness.
Was I determined to live a life of struggle and hardship? Constantly grasping for the American Dream, obtaining multifaceted success, but it always being too far beyond my reach. I made the right choices in my life, or the choices that academia and society told me to do, and yet my life has remained as pointless and useless as ever.
Why was I born into a life of struggle, yet others were born into a life of privilege? Was I truly determined to live a miserable, meaningless life? No matter what choices and decisions I make, will my life have the same pitiful outcome?
As I evaluated my life, and the path I've went down, it sure as hell seems that no matter what I do, it doesn't make a difference.
It wasn't fair, but then again, life doesn't play fair.
So why the fuck should I?