This is a reminder, this is your motivation - this is your reason to succeed. This is your physical, viable, in-your-hands-now reminder to yourself. THIS is why you need to work hard, to get the grades, to stop floundering around like you’re bored and can push things off.
You and I both know you slack off. In fact, you get pretty decent grades for reading 6/23 plays, or 4/12 novels. Consider yourself lucky, or blessed (but I’m sure God doesn’t really approve) of the fact that even though you wait until the day before to work on your papers, or the day of to start studying for finals, that you still have B’s on your transcript.
Now, let’s be real. Glaringly, offensively, real. Your GPA sucks ass. Sure, you can graduate with it, sure, you have academic good standing, and sure - as far as some of the other people you know, you’re not in bad shape. In fact, you’re average.
Guess what, honey? AVERAGE doesn’t get you into law school.
Want to know what else? Even if you worked hard, if you worked your ASS OFF, this entire next year your GPA will be the lowest accepted GPA from the #6 ranked Law School downwards. So, you can pretty much kiss your chances to Yale, Harvard, Stanford and Berkeley, goodbye. Want to know why? Because you SLACKED OFF this entire year. YOU KNOW YOU DID. You used “getting adjusted” and “not having friends” and “dealing with personal issues” to read fanfiction, to lie in bed, to cry, to think - to spend countless hours zoning out and procrastinating. Thanks to your year of “getting used to things” you wasted what could’ve been the most competitive gpa you’d ever earn. You’re lucky you still have a year to clean up the mess that you made.
Seriously? I didn’t come here to give you a verbal ass-kick, but really I did. Don’t come crying to anyone else if you don’t get into law school. That’ll be YOUR fault and your fault alone. THIS. IS. YOUR. DREAM. This is everything you ever wanted. This is what you go to sleep thinking about, this is what you wake up hoping for. THIS. The very thing you are simultaneously throwing away! ALL OF YOUR HARD WORK! All of everything you did to get to Berkeley, to have that name on your transcript, on your DIPLOMA, you’re throwing away because it “got harder” and it “isn’t what your used to”. I don’t give a damn! YOU WORK HARD. You work your ass off, so at the end of the day, you can do EXACTLY what you set out to do! YOU LOST SIGHT OF THE GOAL. You forgot! YOU LET IT PASS YOU BY! You try to justify it with joining a Pre-Law Fraternity… pfft. You know what that’s going to do? You know how that’s going to help you? IT’S NOT. AT ALL. Want me to be honest? Well, here’s the truth, IT ONLY LOOKS GOOD ON YOUR RESUME. AND YOU KNOW WHAT, IF YOU HAVE A LAW DEGREE - WHO THE HELL CARES WHAT’S ON YOUR RESUME PRE-LAW? IT. DOESN’T. MATTER. It won’t help you get into law school and it sure as hell won’t baby you when you don’t.
YOU GET WHAT YOU PUT IN.
And clearly, you’re not putting in enough.
I’m mad at you. I am. Can you tell? I hope so. I’m disappointed in you, I’m upset with you, and I downright want to give you a sound kick in the behind. You’re better than this. You’re better than being lazy, than sitting around and doing nothing. You’re better than what you’re giving and YOU KNOW IT. So, instead of cruising, instead of staying in your comfort zone… Why don’t you get out of it and show the world, and most importantly, yourself, what you’re made of. Because this? This garbage gpa that you have right now? Is NOT you. You’re better than this. I’ve seen you at your best and I’ve seen you at your worst. This? This is you cruising. This is you staying where it feels safe, where it’s okay to be. And this? Isn’t okay. I’m not okay with this and I know you’re not okay with this.
Get it together, doll face, because reality has been here and it has been waiting for you to finally get a grip on it.
Step it up, Khrystan. We both know you can do better and you can succeed.
And who knows? Maybe Harvard will like that you practically crashed and burned and then got it together.
You could always dream.
“I’m leaving you for the last time, baby. You think you’re loving, but you don’t love me. I’ve been confused, out of my mind, lately. You think you’re loving, but I want to be free.”
I want it.
I want it more than you think I do.
A small quiet yearning, not loud, not over zealous - but bright, like the sun. I long for this tender affection, this simultaneous high and low - a floating on air, buoyed by feeling. I hold it captive within my heart, each beat an emphasis - a reminder.
Your touch.
A blanket worn on a humid night.
Uncomfortable, stifling.
The barrier between me and the outside world.
A protection but a weapon.
Slowly killing these -
This -
Me -
My.
Where your voice doesn’t echo in my head. A space for me, completely me - devoid of
Your affection.
My resentment.
I constantly push, pull, yank, tear, scream - working, working, working - harder and harder I fight and I try, I fight and I cry, blood, sweat and tears.
I push, pull, tug and then -
At the pinnacle, the very root. I’m here, so close to the edge, but -
Am I ready to fall?
Hanging by a thread, by a threat?
You, me, our.
Love, lust, us.
I pause and I breathe. I sit down and think. I watch our single root - what holds and binds us together - I examine it and I think
Of all the time it took to
Grow.
Bloom.
To become.
And now, here, I wait for a
Better -
Stronger -
Happier.
You come in, shears, ready for the taking.
Do it. You whisper. Are at the ready. Willing, waiting, with bated (often times exasperated) breath.
Do it now. You whisper again and my resolve falters (strengthens?) and I -
Only want to make you happy.
You need this too, maybe. Need - want - are tired of caring.
You’re tired. Maybe I am too.
Tired of waiting for a change
While we,
Sit here.
And do nothing about it.
Something has to give and usually it’s me.
Bitterness in each and every word.
You try and fail, wishing there were more words - other words - words we haven’t yet said.
And still, we watch. Waiting.
Shears in hand, contemplating.
While I
Taste.
Do I
Indulge?
In the way that you used to.
A secret text, a stolen smile.
Fabricated stories of grandeur.
But really, what are my options?
So
I sit here and think.
Sit here and attempt,
But never really…
Decide.
Our fate, our faith.
Our.