Skydiving without a 'chute

It was August 2008, newly initiated college freshman were running around in a frenzy under the comforting LA sun while parents were walking towards the parking lot with shoulders hunched, heads slouched and palms wiping tears from their face.  I heard a POP.  An overly excited Del Rey North resident had rammed the semi-truck sized red moving bin into a planter outside the building.  If anything was damaged, no one seemed to mind and the day carried on how it was supposed to. 

The next Monday classes were to start.  Engineering, for me, was like skydiving without a parachute.  It was great at first; the thrill and excitement of something new, something humans weren’t naturally meant to do and something that most people don’t experience in their lifetime.  I freefell through first semester with mostly As and a few Bs in some of my harder classes (I was taking Calc I, biology, physics, chem, engineering).  As second semester approached, it was as if I could see the ground more clearly.  Trees started to look like skewers and grass began to look like a concrete trampoline.  Algorithms, calc II, and chem lab weren’t my cup of tea.  I was in studying all night while all my friends majoring in business, sociology, and communications were out experiencing the wonders of college life like there was no life after graduation. I was spiraling out of control at 9.8m/s/s.

Needless to say, I fell in LOVE with the idea of being able to switch my major.  It didn’t matter what I switched to, I knew I didn’t like engineering and that it wasn’t a lifestyle I was suited to.  My parachute had failed, and right before I went careening into oblivion my reserve chute opened and there was hope.  HALLELUJAH!