I have this white crate full of notebooks and spirals from college. It sits on the top shelf in my closet, dusty reminders to knowledge that sits somewhere among the back corners in mind.

I don't pull it down often, but since those old journal entries about Levi were in one of those notebooks, I had too.

Stupid me stayed up until 1 a.m. reading all my short stories and my classmates' critiques.

First of all, could I have any more blatantly made myself the main character? At the time I didn't think I was doing that, but I clearly was.

It's just because I couldn't see how out of control I was.

I couldn't see how frightened I was.

Of graduation.

Of being booted out of Mother Miami's arms.

Of leaving this amazing place. This place where I learned so much about myself. Where I finally became me.

I get reminiscent a lot and wish I were still in college. Wish I were still 21 with limited responsibility and infinite resources.

And Miami's such a special place. Sure, sure yeah yeah, so was your college, I'm sure.

Well, not like this. I'll hold my breath, turn blue and die before you convince me otherwise.

So a lot of fuzzy feelings I have about college have as much to do with the actual school as they do with who I was, and all those typical good party times.

Not to say that our party times were typical, cause y'all know they weren't, right?

But gah, was I a mess. I was being recruited by the Brand then and since I was positive I'd be working there, I did little to no job searching. Hell, that's a lie. I did none.

I actually dropped a class because I had an exam during Mardi Gras, and rather than bothering with a reschedule, I dropped it. Flippantly saying, oh, I'll just take summer school.

And I did. And it was just another way to prolong staying in Oxford. Subconscious or not.

And I wasn't alone. We were in complete denial. Stumbling blindly down the slantwalk to class, with 15 different bar scars on our hands, pulling our A&F caps down over our eyes. Even on Tuesdays.

Senioritis plagued us all.

Except those accounting majors who'd had jobs since October. They can still bite me.

So it took reading those stories, three years out, to make me realize how glad I am to be here. In this place.

Sure, the future's still scary and when I think seriously about leaving I get a little nauseated.

But this time it's my choice. I get to write the timeline. I get to decide when it's time to go.

And on a more practical note, it made me realize how much I miss feedback on my writing.

I'm a journalism girl at heart. Ever since 9th grade J1 with crazy, hippy Ms. A.

So I got used to hearing it. From editors, from advisors, from student readers.

And then I both craved it and simultaneously wanted to plug my ears in protest when I began to explore creative writing. Even if some classmates were too nice, you could always count on a few to rip into you.

And see, I'd go sign up for a workshop or something, but I live in Cowtown, remember?

So it's y'all's job. Talk to me.