Go To College And Get The Hell Out Of My House
This is it.
All those years of nagging are about to pay off. This is why we made you complete that idiotic castle project in ninth grade, harangued you into taking Algebra 2 when clearly addition and subtraction 1 were too challenging, and forced you to join the varsity badminton team so you’d be a well-rounded motherfucker.
It’s time for you to apply to college.
For seventeen years I’ve been dreaming of turning that room of yours into a doggie playground and spa for Barksy. No, I don’t love the dog more than you. At least not by much. But liberation for all is in sight and nothing is going to stop us.
Yes, I know you have the radical idea that college is a “stupid waste of time.” I’ve heard your plans. Spend your college fund on a new car so you can drive far far away from us. Use your college fund to buy a cheap house in Montana where you can work remotely programming porn sites. Cash out the fund to buy a mutant vehicle to help you get you laid at Burning Man.
Your dad and I have something to tell you. You may want to sit down.
There is no college fund.
I can repeat that.
There is no college fund.
I know we’ve talked about this “college fund” since you were a baby, but it’s one of those lovely myths that make childhood pleasant, like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. We assumed you’d figure out it was a fairy tale. Who knew you were so gullible?
We have scraped up enough money to get you one-way transportation to a state school where you will take out a ridiculous number of loans in order to major in something that not only will support you, but will insure your father, Barksy, and I live comfortably in our golden years.
Did I just hear you say “retirement fund”? Let me tell you something about our “retirement fund.” It’s about as real as your “college fund.”
Anyway, to that end, you will not study English lit. You will not study gender studies. You will not study painting.
Yes, I know I have an art degree. I’m a fifty-one-year-old using my $60,000 BFA to paint Baby Shark on the cheeks of toddlers at Chuck E. Cheese. Am I really the example you want to be following?
In order to insure you do not repeat the mistakes of your parents, you will have the following choices of major: actuarial science, petroleum engineering, or nursing. Sorry, pre-med is not an option. If we can’t pay for college how the fuck do you think we’d pay for med school? And, let’s face it: The odds of you getting into medical school are about as good as one of your little ticky tock videos going viral.
You’ve been coddled for seventeen years. Time to cut that cord. Your father is already measuring your room to figure out where Barksy’s Perrier fountain will go. Listen, it’s not a you-versus-Barksy thing. You can’t compare the love a mother has for her darling, precious, beloved angel with that of her kid. I mean let’s face it: Barksy never made me sit in a hospital emergency room for twelve hours while they pumped his stomach because someone dared him to eat a Tide Pod. We’ll be paying for that little adventure for the next twenty years.
We’ve scheduled you an interview at the state university. No, not the one on the pretty campus on the other side of the state. No, not the one in the city with the cool internship program. The cheap one. You’ll be fine. Just don’t drink the water.
I’m aware that all your friends are touring schools in California. I bet those kids have parents who majored in accounting instead of puppetry arts. But not all is lost. We got you a gently used copy of the 2009 Kaplan SAT prep. You’re welcome.
God, stop your whining. Would you like it better if I told you all of this using one of my puppets?
“Whoo whee, kid! Mr. Muffle here! Big year for all of us. Barksy is going to have his own treadmill. Your mother will be able to rid this room of the smell of Chipotle and mango Juul pods. And you? You’ll be getting the fuck out our house.”
Look, it’s not like we won’t support you at all. As soon as you move your ass into the dorms, we’ll slap a bumper sticker with your school mascot on the car.
The interview’s at three. Wear pants.
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