Spoiler Alert: Adulting is a scam. But before I get to the inevitable tax forms and questionable life choices I'll be documenting on this blog, let's talk about the moment it all started. Stepping into my very first university lecture felt less like an academic initiation and more like a chaotic, high-stakes game of musical chairs run by people who skipped their morning coffee.
I was ten minutes early for Introduction to Political Theory, which, in a 300-seat lecture hall, apparently translates to "20 minutes late." The place was packed. I finally spotted a rogue empty seat on the absolute top row—a peak visible from space.
My desperate, silent ascent began. I had to squeeze past about twenty students, performing a low-budget, cringe-inducing version of the classic 'mutter endless "excuse me's" while frantically shoving your backpack past strangers' knees' dance.
Then, disaster struck. As I passed one student, I accidentally clipped their water bottle. It didn't spill, but the motion—combined with the airtight seal—caused it to let out a loud, dramatic squirt of air that sounded suspiciously like a startled rubber chicken being rapidly deflated.
The professor, a famously stoic man, was mid-sentence when the sound rang out. He froze. Every single one of the 300 heads in that auditorium pivoted to stare directly at me—the idiot on the top row who just air-farted his way into higher education.
I collapsed into the seat, my face burning a shade of crimson that scientists should study. I tried to look scholarly, pulling out a pen and notepad while sweating profusely. It was utterly mortifying.
But honestly? That moment of complete, unexpected chaos was also genuinely exhilarating. Despite the public humiliation, the sheer scale of the place, and the pressure of a new beginning, I spent the rest of the hour smiling behind my notepad. I knew right then that this entire university adventure, despite the occasional rubber-chicken sound effects, was going to be a hell of a lot of fun.
