Somehow, it was like someone felt sorry for me and handed me some lemons.
Asha, a 19-year-old college freshman, is sitting on her desk with her laptop open. In a few hours, her essay will meet its deadline, with the question of what she could possibly tell her younger self if she were given the chance. She is currently going through a bad case of artist’s block, and as her eyes start to linger towards the open window, the evening breeze sweeps into her room and tingles her skin. She welcomes it and allows herself to drown in the familiar rural scent. She then decides to rest her eyes. Absent-mindedly, she begins to reminisce on her adolescence. Memories of drinking Milo milkshakes after class and her obsession with overly-dusted chocolate crinkles fill her mind. She also remembers being a decent student with good grades, and a great deal of respect for her parents. They were proud of Asha, but they probably wouldn’t have been if they had discovered that she was actually a drug addict.
And with that memory, Asha begins her essay.
“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
When I was 17, I was a wallflower, and being one didn’t exactly give me the best experience I could get out of high school. So, one day, I decided to hop off the concrete and become a human being, because I felt like I owed myself the courage to find something to make lemonade with. I guess I found those lemons in an empty locker on the last day of my second year, only, they were in the form of white snowflakes. Somehow, it was like someone felt sorry for me and handed me some lemons. I couldn’t care less, and I desperately took them, one whiff per week, then per morning, then per hour, and those few weeks were euphoric, like a power bank, I relied on it for fuel…