(Photo Credit: Adrien)
I want to go. I want to experience the crowdedness of Paris. I want to be there this winter and I want to spend three weeks at a foreign country just for the sole purpose of learning how to write better. Or how to write at all. I want to spend all my savings from these past years of working for three weeks at an overpriced hotel because the overpriced study abroad program wanted to give us the overpriced experience. Of course they told us there is no price on experience or on wonderful opportunities. But there’s always a price; you can’t lie to English majors. They pitch us the unattainable dream, dangling it and saying it is attainable until they slam us down with reality. However, I’ll still waste all my money on it—if I somehow get more money for it just so I can apply, and then I’ll waste even more money for it—because they made it sound ideal and perfect and beautiful. I want to starve in my hotel because I won’t have enough money to buy food but I’d enjoy it anyways. It’d give me something to write about.