There is nothing I can do about the way I am.
Who am I exactly?
I am a human bred to succeed but ended up on the runt side of the litter. I have to sell at a much cheaper price and with less promise than the other pups. That is what having a Fine Arts degree from Chum Bucket Programs is like.
This program I entered was an actual sitcom. Like most people, I have had many experiences that are sitcom worthy.
But OH. MY. GOD.
Let’s start at the beginning:
Everyone knows junior year in college is one of the most pivotal regarding your track to graduating and finding your career path. That is precisely why I took on an unpaid internship through the Campus Art Gallery with a woman we’ll call Gigi.
It started out great. I only needed to fulfill 120 hours as the semester requirement, so it kept me very busy on top of my 20 credits and part-time job. I actually ended up doing more for the gallery than my homework. I learned a lot about graphic design and began pursuing the dream of becoming more than an artist.
On a side note, I was also very close with Gigi’s husband, Dan. He was the advisor for my concentration and my guide through senior thesis. Basically, he was in control of my future.
I was on both of their good sides. Life was busy, but great.
I ended the first semester gallery with 210 hours of the internship completed. Since it carried on into the next semester, which was going to be busier than the previous, I decided to ask the supervisor if I could carry-over the hours. She said, “yes.”
What she really meant was,
“Yes, but I will be extremely bitter about losing my free labor and—by the way—I will influence my husband against you when it comes time for you to
Fast forward to senior year.
School was actual hell as my friends and I scurried to complete our factions of thesis. As tough it seemed, I grew closer with all of them and we had fun, GOD FORBID, planning our thesis show.
My project was a graphic design medium paired with an extremely satirical lens. You can only imagine most people liked it EXCEPT for the teachers because, according to these artists, “Computer art takes no talent.”
I had spent hundreds of hours on each of my pieces, managed to get my point across, and provided humor all the while.
BUT NO, the bullshit gets better.
By better, I mean pettier.
After fighting to prove my work was worthy of the label “art” (at that point, the word “art” was a trigger word, just ask my roommate/best friend (an actual ray of sunshine (who will kill you with her pinky (because it shoots out sunshine)))) for months, the show was coming up quickly. The last semester was upon us.
Now, somewhere in Hell, Satan phoned a friend to make life especially challenging for me.
The last semester requirement was to take on a class labelled “Gallery Internship” with Gigi.
At this point, all of her animosity had brewed at a pleasant distance while spreading rumors to the teachers I was a “Lazy, Rude, Sassy, Bitch.”
This is obviously not true of my character: I worked extremely hard through all of my classes to the point I had severe anxiety. Not only that, I was in the middle of planning my wedding, working a midnight-shift part-time job, and dealing with my mother’s declining medical condition (she is fine now, TG).
But did they hear me complain?
Even if I did, they probably couldn’t hear anything over their self-involved, inflated and petty egoist whimpers.
So, the first day of class went as expected. Gigi assigned all of the graphic design, roughly five projects, to me. Everyone else had a light load and her respect. I had neither.
When it came time to tour the gallery and plan out the space our pieces would go, Gigi commanded I stay in the basement to work on my many projects while she and the rest of the class left. What is this, fucking Harry Potter? Is she a fucking Dursley?
I rolled my eyes. The class consisted of three people, all my friends, so I knew they had my back and would ensure space was saved for me in the gallery, much to Gigi’s dismay.
An entire semester of this and worse went by and the time was nigh for us to set up the gallery. This meant applying our installations, pottery, and prints to the walls and ceiling.
When we arrived the day after another show, we found the gallery was not yet empty. The girl who had showed the week before was only starting to strike her show from the walls. Naturally, we helped because we had only two days to put our show up (we had about 20 hours worth of installation). After eight hours (the girl we were helping left about a hour after we started helping) of repainting, patching, and moving walls around we were ready to start installing our show.
24 hours later, the show was installed. All but one of my pieces.
As I mentioned, I had gone the graphic design route. All of my work was complete EXCEPT for the one thing I had to special order two weeks in advance. They had lost my order and I had to rush it. It was out of my control. Everything else was done and I explained the place I ordered it from was dropping the ball but it would be in in the next day.
Gigi tried to pull the piece from the show and convince Dan to fail me.
Luckily, this did not happen.
What did happen, was when I did get the piece in its spot, the week went along well and people loved the show. Opening night, I noticed the wall label (telling what the piece was called and made out of) had gone missing from its spot.
I asked her what happened to it.
Apparently, she had taken it off the wall and thrown it out because I allegedly said, “the piece will not ever be in the show,” even though I repeatedly apologized for its tardiness and continually ensured her it would be in the show.
Five minutes after the confrontation, she came up to me with a crumpled wall label. In a crowd of hundreds of people in my cocktail dress, I was reapplying a label to the wall.
Out of spite, I applied it crooked.
But I’m a perfectionist and fixed it anyways.
So, the show went greater than expected. All of my friends had fantastic work and the piece I entered late was a huge success. I think this infuriated Gigi.
Striking the show, all memory of the help we offered the girl the previous weekend evaporated from Gigi’s mind.
We spent hours and hours fixing the gallery up and, honestly, most of my work went onto pedestals and tables so I did not have much to repair. I found myself helping my friends out instead. Somehow, I was reprimanded for the “condition of the gallery” along with my roommate. My roommate was punished more for this—I guess Gigi did not think the punishment during the semester was harsh enough. We laughed all the way off the fucking campus, diplomas in hand.
Long story short, anyone who claimed to be my friend thereafter was condemned and looked down on after I graduated.
I know what you’re thinking, “Don’t flatter yourself. She didn’t care that much.”
On the contrary, one of my best friends was in her intern class for the following semester and apparently she gave a speech about how unsuccessful our show was because of the “laziness and lateness.”
Oh, did I mention our show was, according multiple faculty members (ones who were not petty) and students, one of the “most successful shows” they had been to?
Suck it, Gigi.
We all have Gigi’s in our lives. They are there as a test. What is the test? Well, it has to do with resisting murder.