Dumb Luck.

One thing I've learned about myself over the course of time is that I hate when people throw around the word 'luck'. I also hate destiny, fate, and any other words that imply that you don't have control over your life.

When people say I'm lucky, for any reason, I feel like it's a degradation of everything I've ever done. Finding $100 bucks on the floor, that's lucky. Or karma. Who knows? But I didn't get where I am in life by being lucky, no one does.

After re-reading my last post, I wanted to clear the air a bit. I really am proud of myself and everything I've done, no matter how small those achievements may seem to other people (and at times, to myself). I don't have much, but I do know that I've earned what I do have. It has nothing to do with luck.

I spent high school as a sneaky degenerate. I had no regard for hard work or for anything that my parents did for me. For someone who wasn't very spoiled growing up, I certainly felt entitled. I spent those four years doing things my parents would've kicked my ass for, had they known what I was up to.

Senior year rolled around, and I applied to all of the SUNY party schools I had visited. My grades were terrible, my SAT scores were average. My bullshit extra-curriculars got me nowhere. As someone who had no concept of reality at the time, I only applied to four schools-- three of which I wanted to go to, and Iona College. Iona College was the only one that accepted me.

After a brief stint in summer school (which I deserved, because I missed 3/4 of my speech classes), I went to Iona in the fall of '04. Going to a private school was fucking expensive. I took out what seemed like a million different loans. Didn't feel like going to class? No problem. After all, I wasn't wasting my parents' money or my professors' money, I was wasting my own, future money. I dropped at least one class each semester up until I was a Junior, you know, to free up my schedule for things like drinking and naps and sometimes, Oprah.

It was my Junior year that I realized I wouldn't graduate on time. This wasn't an option. I couldn't afford another year of loans. I would have nowhere to live. So instead of taking the easy way out again, I kicked it up a notch and started taking six classes a semester to make up for the ones I had missed. I took summer classes and winter classes. I busted my ass and worked harder than I ever thought I was capable of.

My senior year was a glimpse of what was to come. I was taking six classes, working in the Financial Aid department, and interning in the city. On top of that, I was looking for a post-graduation career and an apartment.

Before I knew it, the bubble of a community I had spent the past four years inhabiting was popped and left me floating in mid-air. Graduation was a string of unforgettable moments for me. It was one of the best days of my life. But of course; what goes up, must come down. And I did. I didn't just come down, I violently crashed headfirst into the pavement.

I lived in a basement for a month and worked four or five part-time jobs, going to interviews in between. None of which came to fruition. Then, I finally found an apartment! On June 30th, I moved into my new abode. Except, the apartment didn't have a refrigerator and stove. The neighborhood was less than savory. My roommates and I broke the lease two days after moving in.

Then I became the homeless bum friend who sleeps on your couch for a month (I paid). This period of time was full of more apartment and job hunting. At this point, a slow and painful suicide seemed like it would be more fun (Does any of this sound lucky yet?).

One afternoon, my apartment hunting partner-in-crime and I found an apartment in a neighborhood we actually wanted to live in. It wasn't perfect, but we moved in two days later anyway. And I love it. After a month of job interviews punctuated by smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in bed all day, one of my part-time jobs offered me full-time status. Downtrodden and tired and generally beat, I accepted. All of the madness and exhaustion and desperation finally ceased.

And here I am. My situation is still far from ideal. I have a new set of problems to conquer-- things like affording a quality of life beyond the bare minimum and balancing my personal needs with the things I have to do in order to survive. But at the end of the day, I fought tooth-and-nail with nothing more than moral support from my parents and a TON of help from my friends (thank you).

So am I lucky that after months of searching for a place to live and a job, I finally landed both? Not by a long shot. I deserve these things because I worked tirelessly for them, the same way I earned my degree at long last. That isn't luck, and I'm not lucky. But I am grateful.