My Stupid Story About Quitting Art School.

Me and school never got along. It wasn't because I was against learning, or against the subject matters being taught. I found it all to be incredibly fascinating. What got to me where the people. I'm damn weird, and have always been damn weird. To anyone else who can relate with that, then they can probably relate with how damn weird it made going to school, and growing up in general.

a VERY EARLY DRAWING OF MY WONDERFUL KINDERGARTEN TEACHER.

a VERY EARLY DRAWING OF MY WONDERFUL KINDERGARTEN TEACHER.

When I finally made it to college it was a clusterfuck, and it didn't last long. I took the art foundation classes, and found myself very uncomfortable in the art school environment. I didn't much get along with the teachers or students, and found the experience to be overall pretty shitty. I didn't have many factors going in my favor when I started college either. I had broken up with my first serious girlfriend onemonth before, and was handed a school schedule that really left me little time for sleep.

All the factors of stress: the heartbreak, pressure to do good, fit in, and find time to sleep with all the homework assigned resulted in me getting very sick.

I ended up with serve bronchitis. I bruised my ribs from coughing so much, and the doctor I saw (some guy fresh out of med school) refused to give me antibiotics. I got behind in my school work, but in my youthful ideals thought it was so important to act stoic, and not say a word of my plight to anyone.

My art projects always were graded as barely passing, or just had written in read ink "DO IT AGAIN." My lines weren't straight enough. My edges weren't clean enough, and there were too many fingerprints. It really got to me, and made each pencil stroke seem like snipping bomb wires, unsure which mistake would kill me.

Still I worked hard, I really did.

Then one day one, as I walked into my 2d foundation class, my professor pulled me aside. She was, in my opinion, an art elitist who had a hair cut/dye job to make her look like a skunk, and art work that really made no sense despite her elitist claims it did. (I promise I am not trying to be bitter when I explain her to you)

So she pulled me aside, sighed, and said, "Your the worst student I've ever had. You're not doing any of the projects right, and I'm gonna have to fail you."

So here I was, hiding as best as I could how under slept, heartbroken, and sick I was; while working the best as I could, just to be told this. I just stared at her a moment, then walked out of the class room. I walked down the school corridors as the dead eyes from paintings students hung up followed me.

I lead myself into the men's bathroom, went into the stall, closed the door, fell back onto the seat, and then just let it all out. I had an opening the flood gates type cry, I really did. I let it out for a couple minutes. No one was in the bathroom, I could only hear that faint, high pitched buzz from the florescent lights above. When I finally felt like I had let it all out, I looked up with my eyes red and itchy, and saw written in cursive on the stall door in front of me:

"Everything will be ok."

I looked at it a moment, and blinked a couple times. Then I just gazed upon it, and everything in that moment made sense. I stood up, wiped my face, opened the door, and left college forever.

That was truly when my art career began.
Listen, let nothing stop you.
 

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