I spent an unreasonable amount of time on the sixth floor of my old undergraduate campus library - escaping to the same small one-person desk by the window, doing work or reading, sometimes getting distracted by all of the books surrounding me, sometimes getting distracted by the cute girl in glasses at the desk facing me a few rows away, and, more often than I care to admit, sometimes taking an hour here and there to put in my down in an attempt to sleep off a hangover.

It’s been three years now since I’ve spent a significant amount of time on the campus and it’s strange coming back, if even for just a few moments, taking note of all the changes and improvements (where were those suites when I was a student?), driving by buildings I spent so much time in, seeing how young so many of the students look, chuckling as I pass houses and apartment buildings that I associate with blurred memories - some good, some bad, some so ridiculous that I sometimes have to question the validity of my memory. 

I don’t miss college. I don’t miss the stupidity, the irresponsibility, or the erratic schedule. I don’t miss sleeping until noon on Saturdays. I don’t miss the ease of the classes, the difficult first lessons in financial responsibility, the absurdity of a near nightly bar scene where pitchers of the light beer on special were all we could afford, or the seemingly endless stream of young women who, like me, were experiencing and enjoying freedom for the first time. I don’t miss these constant discoveries as I transitioned from teenager to adult. I might slightly miss bullshitting with professors and the uniqueness of a lifestyle crafted by meeting new people every week, people from all over the world who were just as wide-eyed and naive about their own freedom as I was, but I don’t miss much else.

Damn though, it was still fun.