We’re just trying to have a good time, college parties edition.

“Yeah, yall are going to have to move.”

I was JUST about to throw down some cards to get a game going when this dude came up to the group of girls I was with and shooed us away. We all sighed, picked up our drinks and shuffled against the wall trying to dodge the crowd in the hallway. The entire walk the dude was close on our heels making sure we cleared the area. It was Saturday night and I was at one of the worst parties I’d ever been to but in about an hour, that would change.

Back in college, my roommates and I were kind of known for how great our parties were. We had the trash can punch recipe down, the hue lights for decor and playlists and games ready to go. We would pool our money together to supply the party with alcohol, because you know broke college kids never brought their own, even if we clearly stated in the Facebook event to bring some. Our friend group was large thanks to the student org we were in but when other people threw parties, they never really measured up. We took pride in our parties, even if the night was drama filled or we ran out of alcohol, no one could tell us they didn’t have a good time.

So safe to say I was not impressed with the situation I found myself in on this Saturday night.

I don’t know what this guys problem was but he was on a mission to be the biggest douche bag in the room. He never stopped herding people into one small room, stopping any games from happening and giving glares at everyone with a drink in their hand. W were only there for about an hour when you could start to feel the annoyance vibrating through the house. So an executive decision was made. The party we were at happened to be in the same complex as mine so my roommates and I came to an agreement, we were hijacking this party and moving it to our house.

We spread the word to our friends to leave in groups every ten minutes or so, we didn’t want to seem like total assholes, and head on over to our place. It was time to turn the night around.

Once back inside our house we turned up the music, poured some shots and got the party started. As more people drifted over from the first party to ours I was determined for everyone to have a good time. As if I was Willy Wonka taking the kids through our chocolate factory, I was passing out drinks, facilitating body shots and checking to make sure the vibe was ten times better than what we experienced earlier.

Looking back I enjoyed this party so much because I was so happy and confident in my ability to turn people’s night around. We had been treated like shit for no reason at this one house and it just pissed me off enough to make sure everyone was going to have a good time at mine. Taking on the role of life of the party isn’t something I’d likely do these days but that night? I was living for it.

I miss the vibe of college parties. When we would throw ones just because we could, select a theme, make a Facebook event and invite everyone we knew. Sure there were some parties that ended in tears and drama but for the most part I always felt happy and in control at the parties we threw. Now that I’m in my mid twenties I know those type of last minute parties aren’t likely to happen ever again. It takes planning weeks in advance to meet up with close friends, and no one has the energy for cleaning up a house after a party that ended at 4 am. But I’m glad I have so many good party memories to look back on.

Especially this party, when I was carefree, confident and in control.


This has been the first post in a series I’m doing with my friend Rubi were we take one topic and both write about it. We’ll be both posting every Sunday so make sure to check out her blog along with mine to see our take on different prompts. This week’s theme was favorite college parties and you can read her post HERE.

 

Oh wait, I might have feelings for you. Coming Out – Part One.

We were sitting side by side on her small dorm bed watching Netflix. We had just gotten back from a house party where we knew no one and had left just as the cops showed up, a typical Saturday night for us. We were drunk and giggly and at some point had started holding hands. You know it wasn’t entirely unusual thing for us, we were both touchy affectionate drunks, always cuddling up with whoever was near and yet this time was different. I can’t remember what we were saying or even watching but I can see her face and feel her hand in mine when I lifted it up and rested it on my leg and thought, “Oh. Oh no.”

It was this moment that I finally admitted to myself that I had feelings for one of my best friends, and that maybe, I wasn’t as straight as I always claimed to be.

Claimed… but didn’t always believe but okay let’s rewind.

Before I was there, a freshman in college with a huge crush on her new best friend, I was a teen who buried any thought of liking girls. The knowing and the feelings would often hit me out of nowhere. A friend brushes her hands through my hair and I like it a little too much, or I learn of someone’s aunt or cousin that had come out and I think “Oh, I wish that were me.” Before I’d shake myself out of it and tell myself, “come on Kendyl you don’t like girls stop thinking you do” as if I could somehow control it.

I remember a time in middle school when I was at a friends house with a bunch of girls for a sleepover, we were playing truth or dare when one girl turned to our friend and said, “Sara*, I dare you to kiss Kendyl.” The feeling that went through me can only be called gay panic. Why were they choosing ME, could they tell? Could they see it on me, did I say or do anything that may have hinted it? Luckily, Sara mumbled something about not knowing me well enough and everyone laughed and moved on while I sat there in panicked silence.

Looking back at all the times I realized I was gay* and immediately shut it down makes me sad for young Kendyl. I wasn’t raised in a homophobic household, I had friends and family who had come out and yet the fear of liking girls was so strong that it took me until I was in college to finally take the first steps to accepting who I was.

So back to the dorm room. I had realized I had feelings for my friend but was in no way prepared to deal with those feelings. She was straight, as far as I knew, and I hadn’t even uttered the word “gay or bi” to myself yet. So I did what I had always done, bury the feelings and try to not let them show. The rest of my friendship with this girl was amazing at times, and extremely hurtful and confusing at others. I never admitted my feelings for her, instead was content for drunk hand holding or kisses until the time came for us to grow a part.

I wish I could say that after I realized my feelings for her that I happily came out of the closet but in reality that’s not what happened. I still had to have certain experiences and relationships before I could be comfortable with who I was but this crush? This crush was a step, and I’m thankful for it.

Happy Pride Month friends, I’ve been wanting to write about coming out for awhile now but haven’t figured out how so I decided to start here. This might be part one in a series or I might chicken out and never write about coming out again but I doubt that. 

*Name changed because who knows what people from middle school may be reading this

*I use gay, queer, and bi interchangeably some people may not agree but all three identities feel right and comfortable to me 

 

 

Motivation, the elusive beast.

Motivation mo·ti·va·tion mōdəˈvāSH(ə)n (noun)
– the general desire or willingness of someone to do something.

The second time I tried to attend college I thought the drive to be out of my mom’s apartment would be enough to keep me going. I hated living in her living room with no privacy, no space of my own, and constant supervision. I had to get out of there and the only solution to that was to go back to school full time. So I moved out and went back to college in a different city, determined never to find myself in that situation again. It started how I expected, I had fresh notebooks, a shiny new campus to explore, and a brand new major to start in on so I was revved up to get some knowledge. And yet a month into the semester I started skipping classes, maybe once a week, then two, then three…then all of them.

The first couple of times I skipped I would ask myself, “Kendyl don’t you want to get your degree? Don’t you want to earn a lot of money? Don’t you want to live on your own, get your dream job, get married and not disappoint your family?” Yes, of course I’d say, but then I’d roll over and take a six hour nap.

For awhile I thought all I lacked was motivation (and maybe coffee.) I just had to find that thing that would get me going again. I looked for it everywhere, is it money? Maybe if I barter with myself and go to at least three classes I’ll buy a new shirt. That didn’t work. Maybe I’m motivated by the need for love? If I go to class I’ll take to that cute girl who sits near me and maybe we will become friends. Nope. So maybe I’m motivated by spite. That one guy in class laughed at my answer so I’ll go and get an A on the test and prove that asshole wrong. Yeah, not good enough.

I couldn’t find motivation anywhere and my lack of it started to escalate until it became obvious that not having a motivator wasn’t the problem. Spoiler alert, it was depression.

Except, even now, when I can confidently say I’m not depressed, motivation still eludes me. I obsess over it sometimes as if it’s a measuring stick on how I’m handling my mental health. Like okay I’m motivated enough to get out of bed, get dressed, feed myself and go to work but not motivated to go to Zumba. Does this mean I’m still depressed? Am I just lazy? Do I need motivation for every activity or life goal I try to pursue?

I think about it often, asking myself what motivates me and what could drive me to better my life and really the only conclusion that I’ve come up with is, motivation is bullshit. You read that right, motivation is absolute bullshit and I need to stop looking for it. Nothing motivates me and I’m aware of that. Accepting that and just finding the sheer will to still live the life I want is enough for me and isn’t that what motivation is anyways? The general will?

If you haven’t guessed, the answer is yes, because I defined it up there at the top of this post. You’re welcome. So that’s what I’m going to do, not rely on some external motivator to magically keep me going. My motivation is just…me. I want to live, and I want to live well so I will.

Then again I could be full of shit so my question for you is, what motivates you? Do you obsess over motivation as much as me or are you suddenly going to start to because of this question? (If you are I’m sorry, it sucks I know.) Or has your motivation changed over time? Let me know.

First Kiss, an explanation

The guy was blonde and he was definitely a fraternity pledge, which makes sense considering I was in a frat house, at a frat party, surrounded by frat dudes. I have no idea what his name was but I’m sure it was somewhere along the lines of a Jason, Matt, or Andrew. Actually typing the name Andrew seems right so maybe his name started with an A? It doesn’t matter, what matters is that this forgotten name blonde frat boy was my first kiss.

Romantic, I know.

I was 18 and a freshman in college, it was my first or second party EVER; my eye shadow was heavy and my flirt game was strong. I’d only had a couple of sips of alcohol before this so chugging four lokos with my roommate gave me enough confidence to conquer the world. Which was how I ended up in some random dudes room, sloppily making out with Andrew(?)

I don’t remember if the kiss was any good or not, considering I was drunk for the first time and also having my first lip to lip contact, I’m sure it was awful. The clearest thing from this encounter that I can remember is that my eyes were wide open and I was actively thinking “this is my first kiss, so this is what kissing is? oh his eyes are closed, my eyes should be closed too right? but how can I close them when this is my first kiss! I need to see what’s going on!”

I also was very aware that at any moment this boy could open his eyes and catch me staring at him and realize that this was my first kiss and he’d, god forbid, laugh at me. But that didn’t happen and luckily, nothing else did that night either. It wouldn’t be until later that I realize going off with a boy you just met while drunk is not always the smartest thing to do, no matter how cute and nice they seem. (But that’s a lesson for another day)

I ended up seeing that boy randomly around campus for the next couple of months and then promptly forgot everything about him until this moment when I really had to strain my memory to come up with an image for him.

I can picture my younger self being extremely disappointed in this story. I mean your first kiss is supposed to be memorable right? You should at least, remember the guys name! Well sorry younger Kendyl, but you should really stop putting a lot of stock into first experiences because they are almost always going to be very, very disappointing. (You really don’t want to know how losing your virginity goes, just get rid of any and all expectations now kid)

Really though, I wish I could tell my younger self that the first moments aren’t really going to matter, sometimes not even the last ones will. Milestones are relative, and you shouldn’t live life as if you’re checking things off of a list, because lists are boring and life isn’t always laid out neatly like that.

Sometimes your first kiss is in a loud frat house with a guy whose name might or might not be Andrew, and you probably couldn’t pick him out of lineup but that’s okay, because that first kiss led to many more memorable kisses and at the end of the day those are the ones that count.