Hoooooooooooly fuck. EDIT

I totally had a college essay I liked and according to my mother and my brother, it needs a shit-ton of work. HONESTLY? I could care less. I had it how I liked it. It sounded like something only I would write. It had voice and (maybe?) personality, and it was about photography. Which, if you've talked to me for ten minutes, you'll know is my favorite thing in the whole enitre goddamn world. And now I'm told it needs all these fancy descriptions usings words I would never use in real life. Which would make it soun d like something I didn't write. Hell, apparently I'm not even supposed to use appostrophes and abbreviations. And just that right there completely changes the voice of the friggin' essay. I want this to sound like something I would write and talk about in real life, not like something some fancy-schmancy stuck-up bitch wrote about because she thought it would get her to college. I mean, yeah I want this to help me get into college but I freaking want it to come from the heart, not because I thought the topic would earn me brownie points with so-and-so.

UGH. Friggin' hell. And Dad's watching some concert CD for some crap old person musician I could really do without. And my iPod will not cover the sound. At least, not without blasting my eardrums out.

Fuckfuckfuck. I hate college. I love college. I just want to freaking get out.

Sum 41 is the only angry music I have on my iPod and I only have 2 songs (and one isn't even all that angry),
Keegan <3

EDIT
Made a joke/angry version of my essay. ENJOY.

The Darkroom

I love the acrid, chemical-y smell of darkroom. I didn’t like it at first, but now I freaking love it. I love it when mine own hands smell like darkroom. Yes, the chemicals dry my hands out like crazy, but I love it all the same. I even love the copious amounts of lotion I end of having to use afterwards. Mostly because I thought the word copious sounded like a “smart” word to use in this essay. I also love going to my next class knowing that I just did something most people will never do. Because seriously. Name how many people you know who have developed black and white film. I guarantee that number does not exceed two hands. Unless you’re sitting in photo class in high school. In that case, you know a lot of people. But how many people actually LOVE it?
It was that second roll of film that did it, that secured my love for photography. That first roll, sure. That first roll was great and all, but it was done with a partner. That second roll of film, though? That was it. That was all by myself. I rolled, developed and made prints all by myself. If I look back to what made me first want to be a photographer, that second roll of film is pretty significant.

I have not been in the darkroom since intro to photo in freshmen year. I miss it dearly, but since then, I have discovered digital photography. I have discovered Photoshop and my mother’s Pentax K100D (a friggin’ type of camera, if you don’t know) and blue tones, levels, color balance, the tripod and self-timer. I’ve discovered what I was meant to do. It may sound strange, because who really knows what they want to do when they’re still in high school and not even 18? And yet, this? Photography? It just fits for me. It just fits.

I have missed the darkroom and soon enough, with advanced photo later this year, I will be able to experience it all over again. I will be able to experience the not-so-simple simplicity of a black and white photo, developed and printed all by myself, with the smell of darkroom all around me. And hopefully this essay will get me into college and sound like it is coming from the heart. Too bad it kind of does not sound like that now that I have been attempting to employ all the useless input from my mother and my brother, who, while I feel they had good intentions, I also felt they were completely changing the feel of my freaking essay so it no longer sounded like it came from my very own heart and can you tell, oh, essay reader, that it kind of made me angry and I just needed to plug my ears and tell them, “Too much input!” which actually did not help. Although they did eventually go away and now here I am, sitting here. Still kind of pissed off. Which you can probably tell because I’m not longer writing about my love for photography and how I miss the dark room and instead, these past 10 lines or so have just been my complaining. LET ME INTO COLLEGE, PLEASE. PLEASE!!

THE END.