During the first few months of college I had a burning urge to reach high school popularity. That doesn’t exactly make sense– I know– because how can I be high school popular at a university, right? Well, the goal was simple: befriend people who I thought would have been high school popular, just to get a taste of what my life could have been. There was one step I had to take to social climb.
(TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL VIOLENCE)
I was reading over my diary– a relic I’ve had since the 6th grade– and as a college freshman, I thought it would be interesting to read through what happened to me in late November of every year since 10th grade. I would go back earlier, but I didn’t write for November at all from 6th-9th, so we’re stuck with this.
I’m going to keep it exactly how it’s written in my journal– unexplained typos, poor punctuation, and all. If anything is bolded, it’s my present day Eloise commentary. I’ll probably use it for clarification and contextualization.
Thought I’d share a funny short update on Nicholas Henry Holiday here, for the three people on here who’ve been following my life.
If you want a refresher, rereading the preface (AKA my first three-or-so paragraphs) of my On College Loneliness and My First College Boyfriend post would give all the context needed for this.
My closest friend Toph and I went on a friend date on Friday. It was sort of an early birthday celebration– really early, because I don’t turn 18 until January– but since Toph is going abroad on a trip with his Middle Eastern studies class during my birth month, we decided to dub it as such. That day was probably the best I’ve had in recent memory, and so I couldn’t help but update my Snapchat and Instagram stories every time we arrived at a new destination to show off its greatness.
In one of the captions, I hashtagged #FRIENDSHIP in big letters across the screen. My friend, Juniper, sent me a private message shortly after that read:
Damn! Friendzoned the shit out of his cute ass!
It happened only twice, but when I would tell people my goofy stories of how Nick Holiday would unconsciously call me by a different girl’s name, they would be in absolute shock. Everyone was always more distraught about it than I was.
Sometimes I hate being 17. Correction: most of the time I hate being 17. The only time I ever confidently claim my age is when I’m sucking up to old people who are absolutely impressed by how a 17-year-old youngin’ got her way into college a year before her peers. Besides them, everyone loves to patronize me.
“OMG. You were only nine months old when 9/11 happened?” My roommate, Flower Hussain, brilliantly deduced in front of all of her friends. We were on the top floor of Mellwitt Hall in room 410, and the gathering of girls were blown away at the prospect of a 17-year-old attending their institution.
Taking a break from the long posts I’ve been writing, let’s have some light fun and reminiscing of the good moments I had in my life.
Nicholas Henry Holiday and I would sleep together nearly every night, and I quickly found out that he sleepwalks. There wasn’t a single night we slept together that he didn’t wake me up. I thought I’d share the first time it had ever happened to me.
Going into my freshman year, I was told that college can be a lonely time for us adolescents. Had you known me exactly one month ago, I would have disagreed: I had a rich, popular boyfriend, went to parties on the weekends, and had friends galore. If you had asked me a month ago from tomorrow, I would have one-thousand percent concurred.
Right now, I’ve been living in this weird nomadic limbo. I was just recently kicked out of my room in Mellwitt Hall (more like Mellshit, am I right?) by my amazing roommates Lola and Queenie. It’s unfortunate that Lola shares the same nickname as me, and now, knowing how badly I dislike her, I wish my name resembled nothing of her character.
So, I’ve been trying to channel my frustration on the world productively. Here it is, world: a blog.
Background to contextualize my life:
I’m going to try to keep this short because this is the boring part.
My full name is Eloise Kneadly and I’m a 17-year-old freshman (update: I’m 18 now) at a small liberal arts college in the rural Midwest. Perhaps it’s not quite as rural as I describe it, but I’m from the heart of Manhattan in NYC, so my urban nationalism has me half expecting people to pull up to campus in tractors.
My senior year kind of sucked, but that’s for another blog post. To summarize it in 10 words:
changing schools, bad boyfriends, stalking, blackmail, fighting, too much drama
Considering all of that, when I got to college, forgive me for expecting high-school to be over. I thought I was past all of that needless adolescent bickering and on to bigger and better things.
To sort of reinvent the Eloise we’ve all come to know and love, and separate myself into a new, god-like, perfect female, I came up with the name Luna, and decided I would go by that for my new Middle-American life. Luna was to be everything Lola wasn’t (Lola is the nickname my best friends and family call me by): kind, patient, hard-working, a good student, popular. The kind of girl everyone, including me, wants to be. It would be time consuming, but to achieve the sort of infectious popularity I’d seen other girls so effortlessly emit would scratch off a checkbox on my teen-movie fantasy bucket list.
I thought it would be easier to explain if I pretended that Luna was my middle name, but it’s just something I heard, liked, and then claimed. There was this movie that had come out earlier this year with a main character named Luna, and they described her in the trailer as such: LUNA FEELS EVERYTHING.
I severely identified with Luna’s emotional wreckage. It was a way I could still keep some of Lola in my new identity, and I quickly decided to take up this new demeanor.
So this is where I’m going to complain about the first-world hardships Eloise, Lola, and Luna all have to face. Maybe now the world won’t feel so lonely?