My So-Called Life

Unfortunately for Generation MTV (I'm revoking the title X here), we, at the vulnerable 'tween age witnessed the roaring success of The Real World.  This planted the seed of reality television and how cool it was to watch "ordinary" people in their late teens and early twenties live in mansions, and throw each others toothbrushes into toilets.  We weren't exactly alloted the greatest material as you can see, so you'll have to excuse us later in life when some yahoo connects every college together allowing us all to network.

MTV didn't provide us with individual documentary cameras, so, left to our own devices, we reached for the latest and most affordable technology: the digital camera.  We utilized this gift to make our very own episodes on Facebook: The College Years.  In our defense, while documenting our lives, we were reassured that having a college email was mandatory for participation. Until the face of worlds creator, Tom or Justin Timberlake, whoever it was... betrayed us all and let any yahoo sign up.  Literally, all you needed was an email to allow access into the fairytale land of tequila shots and crude gestures.  

What our world creator didn't realize (or maybe he did, but was looking for a quick buck and sold us out) is that, OUR PARENTS, you know, the people that are funding this documentary, have email accounts.  I know parents aren't internet savvy, but word of mouth spreads, and well, duh Justin, your "big" hair brained idea wouldn't have taken off if word of mouth didn't exist! So our betrayer, the creator of face world, is to blame for this mess, not our content.

We thought we were safe in the secure walls of privacy settings and friend confirmations while making this world of one too many tequila shots. The result and the proof: our own college lingo on display for all. Having the personal belief that one shouldn't censor themselves for the benefit of others, I wasn't worried if the girl that sat next to me in language history that I was only really friends with in face world, understood that my real life friend Jill and I decided to speak only in Russian.  Jill would laugh, so it wouldn't matter if classmates would wonder if I believed myself to be a Russian rap star in real life, or question my sanity or spelling abilities.  I was a comical genius. The show must go on.

In early world face world, I would view it as vanity or an insult to said photographer if I removed my name form the bottom of their pictures.  Being a social girl, and finally owning my own digital camera, this led to many pictures.  As I began to accept the outsiders into our once safe world, I started to speak in English for the masses to understand and grew up (well, at least from riding in the trunks of cars, and beer bongs) a little bit.  Having newer picture albums of drinking beer while hiking a mountain, or drinking a beer with a statue. Things toned down a bit from the age of 22, and I boringly stopped letting real life friends spike my hair straight in the air with gel for my face world friends to see. 

The evidence of foul language, and spiky hair, became buried under layers of new and improved photography with beer and my own native country's language, allowing me to forget those little gems tucked away.  Time moves on, real life becomes more interesting than face life, you stop spending as much time in make-believe land, Justin keeps changing his mind on who can view what, so your upkeep isn't  what is was once.  Soon, you start getting excited to see your nieces, favorite aunt, and other relatives join.  Because, at this stage in your life, you are more interested in your niece's dance recital pictures than you are of letting the stranger sitting next to you in math class know how much fun you have every weekend with your Russian rap star friends.  

I suppose our generation of little documenting fools got us into this world of face mess and I'm no longer blaming Justin Timberlake.  In our defense, though: to the older generations, what if technology presented itself to you, and you vainly accepted at the age of 21?

Ol' Hundai

When I was five or six I would travel on the weekends.  I know this sounds extravagant for a girl just starting kindergarden. During this phase of my traveling career, I mainly just spent the weekends a couple cities from where I resided with my mother and step-father.  I had this little purple Care-Bare suitcase.  I'm sure it was filled with pajamas and enough clothing to spend the weekend with my dad.  Maybe there was a planner in it as well.  But my poor ol' dad just happy to finally have my company for the weekend, forgot to check the planner to see I had already penciled in the neighbor girl Nicole, as I would dart from the car to her house.  Leaving the purple Care-Bare suitcase in his hands to find it's way into my bedroom.

When I was eight or nine I began taking sabbaticals every summer. I know this sounds elaborate for a gal who has yet to enter middle school, but the quasi weekend visits weren't cutting it. So the little Care-Bare suit case found its own way (I'm sure my dad had something do with that) into the garage where it lived out the course of it's life, remembering past travels, until finding its way to the dump (again, I'm sure my dad had something to do with that).  I would be leaving my "head-quarters" for three months and would need much more than just pajamas and a few items to last me an entire summer. Enter the monstrosity of a suitcase with magical powers that allowed me to cram an entire bedroom into its realms, leaving my dad in quest for his own super natural abilities to haul this miraculous creature into my bedroom.

When I was thirteen or fourteen I took a four year retreat from my main residency.  I know this sounds complex for a teenager about to start high-school to pull off a departure of this extent under the eyes of a watchful mother, but she knew my travelin' soul was in good hands.  I mean she witnessed with her own two eyes the man that was capable of transporting my monstrosity of a suit case time and time again, and if he was capable of that he could handle anything.  He even helped cram four years of new collected belongings into my Grand-Prix as I ventured off to college.

When I was twenty-two or twenty-three I decided to take a holiday. I know when one goes on a "holiday" they usually return in a week, two weeks max.  So to leave on a two year holiday may seem a bit extreme for a lass who has yet to finish college, but the cold winters and the iced Michigan roads allowed Alabama to present itself as the most efficient place to change college careers.  Allowing this travelin' soul to encompass the culture of grits and "yes ma'am".

When I was twenty-five or twenty-six I took a leave of absence to venture to Colorado.  I know this appears to be a radical move, relocating to a state in which you have never visited, but when you own a purple Care-Bare suitcase at the age of six the travel bug becomes imbedded early-on in life.  Unfortunately, my leave of absence turned more into a hiatus as I soon discovered being out west involves sophisticated traveling arrangements, you can't really jump in your car for a quick visit to your family.  There are mountains involved out here.  You need maps, planes, time portals, all sorts of devices to find your way to the company of your family.

When I turned twenty-eight, to be exact, I realized my current location is pretty remote.  I know this sounds mind-boggling for a woman who eluded college for so long, to obtain a degree, only to leave the city and move closer to home.  In general people get the degrees in hopes to venture out, and get the jobs in the big cities.  I suppose I've always had adverse reactions to authority figures, granted it's a figure of speech but that general whose in charge of ideas won't be ordering this lady around.  So my general idea,  is stop relying on time travel devices, pack up my Hundai, and head south again. Well Florida... I have yet to live there.