How To Make a Glamorous Career The Right Way.

“Wait a minute, so what do you want to be?”

Oh god…why do they always have to ask? Why can’t they just leave me alone? I swear, I can make decisions on my own! It’s just…it takes me a while, you know?

I mean, I haven’t survived this whole time without making a few decisions of my own. Like ruining Christmas three years in a row, starting from my senior year of high school. Personally, I have fond memories of that first time. Can anyone say road trip? Let’s see…what else have I decided on my own? Oh, I almost got myself killed once or twice by making idiotic decisions, and I really can’t remember a smart, responsible decision that I’ve made in quite some time. Whatever…it’s not like using my head’s gotten me very far.

Although, everybody keeps on disagreeing with me about that. I have no idea why, but I’m not going to complain if people are dumb enough to believe I’m a good person.

My name is Cheyenne Wilson, and I am an obsessive-compulsive liar. This is my truth book, to make up for the last one I was forced to write by a completely insane English teacher of mine a few years back.

Okay, so he wasn’t insane, but I can’t believe he’d think I was that interesting in the first place! I mean, I lie so I can look a little better, but I never thought I was qualified for the Sneaky Olympics or anything! Seriously, all my peers can see right through me, but no, not teachers. Not adults, not anyone over thirty.

Except for my dad. He’s cool; for some reason, if he believes in me then I feel like maybe I’ve got a shot in life. He’s all I got anyway, so it’s only natural I’d believe him.

My mom, Mia, died three years ago from brain cancer. I never really went to her funeral. Actually, I never went back ‘home’ after that. Mia and I lived down in the South all my life-except for the tiny detail that I was born in Sweden-with her close and distended family members, and I always loved my family but I was never really tight with them.

I never saw my dad until I was seventeen. I mean, I knew who he was, but that’s only because we got kicked out of our apartment my senior year and Mia decided it would be a good time to send me to live with Mark’s parents. Mark is my dad, by the way, and I unfortunately take after him more than I do my mother, despite the fact that I never even saw the dude until I was like way to old to be influenced by him. Hmm, I guess certain traits do run in the genes.

Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. I should probably warn you from the get-go that I tend to do that a lot, but I’ll try to stay on topic, just for you, my all-important reader.

So this supposed mentor is sitting across from me at this table in NYU’s gigantic library-hey, I’m in college! What did you expect?-and he’s looking like some god-awful, heinously old professor should, except he doesn’t seem to understand what I just told him.

It’s early December, and it’s my junior year of college. Apparently, I’m already supposed to know what I want to major in, but I still have no clue what I should major in because personally, I don’t care. All I want is a godamn job! And no, I’m not going to be a nurse or a writer, or even a teacher. I refuse to do any of those three, because for one, Mia always wanted me to be a nurse-and I’m not one to honor the dead’s wishes unless it appeals to me too.

Two, writing is something I like to do. I’m not going to spend like, the rest of my life doing something I love just so I can learn how tedious it becomes. No, writing stays a hobby in my world.

And three, being a teacher? Please! Have you no shame? No way am I getting near a bunch of nasty little brats who I would rather push down staircases instead of teaching them about whatever the hell I’d be teaching.

Am I being pessimistic? I’m sorry…

Anyway, so my ‘mentor’ was supposed to be helping me figure out what I wanted to major and minor in. NYU gave us these stupid little freshman groups my first year here and made us get acquainted with professors and all, and let me tell you:

It was the stupidest class of my life.

I know how to walk around a campus. I know how to take notes, and I know how to buy things. Oh, I’m a good listener-when I want to be-and I’m more of an audio and visual learner than a kinetic learner, which apparently places me miles above all my other ‘college peers’.

I don’t see the difference but whatever. Point is, the class was dumb and now I’ve got my ‘teacher’ from that class hovering over me, like he’s known me all my life and is trying to help me out.

See, here’s my problem. I didn’t want to college, and I have no idea how I fooled NYU into taking me, either. Believe me, it was as much a shock to me as it probably was to you to hear I even stepped foot on the campus. I’ve made good grades, and most of the classes are pretty easy in my opinion. Of course, half my classes are art classes, but I’ve taken a few core classes here and there.

If you were to ask me a trigonometry question or something, I…well, there’d be a 60 chance that I’d know the answer to it. See? So I took the class. Doesn’t mean it changed my life but whatever. Was college supposed to do that in the first place, when in this day and age it’s pretty obvious college is just another four-year baby-sitting job for a bunch of old people?

The way I see it, my generation was sucked into the college trap. We’ve been fooled into believing we need college to survive, and that if we don’t go we’re somehow letting ourselves down. The truth in my eyes is that the schools got a little greedy when more people started to enroll and now they want to keep making bank. Therefore, the media, your parents, and every crass teacher you’ve ever laid eyes on will tell you the same thing: go to college or you’re dead.

I agree with them in most cases, but some people just don’t need to go to college to be successful. College is not the place where you’re going to magically become good at something or whatever. You’re going to gain some weird or major skills you’ll need for the rest of your life.

Now, for the people who don’t have a clue as to why they’re in college…well, they end up like me. Taking all the art and easy classes, and only taking the minimum required amount of core classes.

And by their junior year, apparently they will have been so transitioned into college that obviously they’ll know what major and minor they want. Sadly, this doesn’t happen because those kids know in their hearts that they have no idea what they’re doing in college. They only went because they had to or they would, and I quote from my grandparents, ‘be disowned’. They don’t know why they’re confused about something that’s supposed to be so easy, and they’ll probably never know, but it’s because they knew from the start what I did; everything I’ve learned in college is stuff I already knew. So why am I here again?

“Explain to me why you want to be this, Cheyenne,” the old professor mumbles across the table, clearly befuddled by my decision. I grin sweetly and shrug, my strawberry blonde hair-finally grown out!-framing my made-up angel’s face.

“I dunno.” Yep, that’s me for you…being as vague as I possibly can. I’ve come to realize that the more information you hold back gives you the most control of your life. That is, I mean, if you have plans of your own and you know how to sneak around properly. “I just thought it’d be fun to do for the rest of my life.”

“But…but New York University has never had someone want to major in something like this.” And apparently nobody at NYU has been a carbon copy of me, either.

“Well there’s always a first time, huh?” I say, still grinning. The professor looks up at me from the table, aware that I’m mocking him. Good to know these teachers are taught to know the difference between pleasantries and taunting. I shift in my comfortable library seat and reach to grab my coat, ready to leave for the night. It’s December, it’s cold, and I’m in the greatest city in the world. There is no way I want to be in the library right now with some old guy!

“Sorry but I got no time for this,” I say. “Let’s talk about my crazy new dream job later, all right?” The professor nods, running a hand through grizzly grey hair. Ugh, remind me to never get that old…

“Well all right, but I’m only reminding you, Miss Wilson. You’ve only got a few months left to decide, and…I’m not quite sure you really want to do what you just told me.” I shake my head at him like he’s some insolent kid.

“Nope. That is really what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

And then I ditch him, practically throwing myself down the library stairs to get out of there. I hate talking to that old man, and I’m pretty sure nothing will ever change that.

I’m on my phone a little while later, tromping down the New York streets towards my room, calling the one kid who I can call who is always ready to have a good time. It’s a shame, actually, that he changed so quickly in college. I was sure he’d be a lawyer when he graduated, but no, now he really wants to be an artist.

A crazy, live-off-the-land-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-for-a-few-years, kind of artist. No, not really, but I like to tease him about it. He goes to Columbia, and since it’s pretty close I figure I might as well give him a ring. It’s Friday night, after all. Plus I want to vent to someone!

Seriously, how can someone like a supposedly liberal teacher think that being a waitress is not a lifetime career? Well, he’s wrong. And I might be wrong too, but that’s what I want to be, I’ve concluded. It’s something that doesn’t seem mundane, but it’s also something I don’t love too. It’s perfect for me to do for the rest of my life!

See, this is what happens when you send people who are not meant for college to a university; they get confused, spiteful, and then they decide to do something that means something to them. And then it’s like the heavens crash down on them because of that.