Wisconsin 3

Gotta Get Away

After five months within the halls of Victory University, I experienced enough to hate it. The room I sat in put the Great Plains out west to shame. Plain brick walls of white surrounded me, topped with a greyish-white ceiling. Below me laid out a carpet of dark brown patterns. It looked more like someone with serious diarrhea problems unloaded onto my floor. The white brick walls and two blue bunk beds made it feel like a small prison cell rather than a dorm room. All it needed was bars to hold America's most wanted.

Victory University, much like a prison, came with a gym, cafeteria, uninteresting views, and an absence of freedom. The only difference between it and prison was twenty years of student loan debt. While one might say the school did not have prisoner-beating guards, they would be wrong. We called them Professors. They made students miserable by trying to control every facet of their lives. They wanted to form the next generation of brain-dead drones for the American workforce. University life did have its perks, don't get me wrong, but none of them applied to me. Students still partied and enjoyed group outings. For an introvert much like myself, said events held no meaning.

I always enjoyed traveling, but the school strapped me down on money. I could hardly pay to go anywhere. My grades and attendance already slipped without me even getting a job. When I first arrived at Victory five months ago, I hoped my new freedom would give me more incentive. After a few months, that motivation continued to decline.

There wasn't any more freedom at college than I had at home. I thought moving out and away from my parents would help me slow down and think. When leaving home, a short bout of freedom overcame me. I could spread my metaphorical wings a little. Be free. I hoped University would be the answer to that.

Instead, I found a new host of characters who wanted to own my soul. I put money into Victory to learn from their services. Instead, they left me feeling lost and empty. They were stripping away my individuality from me as they tried to turn me into another cog in the machine. They wanted me to devote all my time to be like any other typical human being, soon to have a family with kids and a job.

Much like my father, none of my time would be spent with said family, spending all my time working instead. Then I'd retire when I turn 60, only for the vicious cycle to continue. The idea of being ordinary or unexceptional disgusted me. No one ever got anywhere in life by doing what everyone else did. Many nights I wondered how many people lay on their deathbed and regret the little they did in life.

How many people grow up with grand plans and things they want to do with their lives? How many people didn't even get to do half of it because they needed to tend to what society called normal? I knew what normalcy had in store for me from a young age. I grew up watching my father work a job he hated and hardly get anything from it to support his family.

When I turned into an adult, I saw him completely change. He realized how much time he lost from his son by working such a job. I didn't hate work. People needed money, and I understood that. I hated massive corporations thinking they owned the lives of those they hired. CEOs who never worked an honest job in their lives rolled in the big bucks.

They treated the actual workers of the company like replaceable brain-dead robots. Employees offered their services for payment, not their lives. Some jobs did require one to be willing to sacrifice themselves, but for the greater good. I gave police officers and firefighters full respect. They did offer their lives, but for the wellness of all people, not because their job wanted them to.

Everyone asked why suicide rates continued to rise. I crafted a theory about why. I believed that most people preferred not to live to devote their lives to a soulless, dying economy. Individuality died as corporations only cared about the almighty dollar. Society treated the people of the American workforce as replaceable cogs in a dying machine.