Fake-deep people are sucking my will to exist

 
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As a young woman attending college, I can attest that I’ve spoken to my fair share of characters throughout my university days. I’m sure in your head, 20-something-year-old reading this, a lightbulb went off when you read the word character. We all know them, all too well.   From ultimate frisbee gurus, to Greeks, to stressed med students to newspaper nerds such as myself, college campuses are home to a menagerie of people just trying to find themselves in this transitional dream world which ultimately manifests their destiny. And that’s great, variety is the spice of life, and most people I meet here, regardless of how they identify themselves, teach me a lot about life and myself.

All that aside, it is also within college’s pearly gates where I have encountered the absolute worst type of person, and I’ve encountered one too many. These people make my skin crawl and test my resolve to refrain from being an asshole. I can’t stand these people anymore.

I’m talking about fake-deep people, everyone. You know — Hunter, the cryptic musician and Liz, the flanneled hipster. You met them both at your friend’s house show, of course. They appear to be interesting, nice-enough people. That is, until you actually talk to them.

Two minutes into your conversation, Hunter won’t shut up about how much he hates small talk. He just hates it. So. much. He then "furtively stares" into your eyes — he’s seeing into your soul, I’m guessing — and truthfully, looks pretty constipated. His attempted facade of mystery and depth already fails him. He reminds you he started his own soft-chillwave-housestep band, The Hoozy Whatsits, with his friends from back home in Portland. He plays bass.

He reveals that, yes, nihilism really is his religion, and, no, he doesn’t really believe in organized religion. You try to make a run for it at this point because you’ve realized Hunter is worse than a fuck boy — he’s the male embodiment of Lana Del Rey. He probably writes bad poetry and cries about his ex-girlfriend three years later. He probably smokes weed every day and romanticizes David Bowie and depression. As you turn away, he frantically asks if he told you just how much he loathes small talk.

But, alas, as you escape Hunter, you run into Liz. She introduces herself and tells you how meaningful the sun — no, the symbolization of the sun — is. She asks you what you think about astrology and reveals she is such a Leo. That’s why she loves the sun and introspection.

Liz just spent three months in Hawaii. She needed to “spiritually connect” to the earth and herself. She says she took magic mushrooms under the stars in a field at the farm where she WWOOF’d. It really opened her eyes, clarified her perception — she gets it, now. It was the best decision she ever made.

You know — I try to be open-minded when I meet new people because people, cliché as it sounds, often surprise me. These self-proclaimed philosophers, however, do no such thing.

A fake-deep person will one moment absolutely deplore capitalism, but the next proudly show off their new Commes de Garçon high-tops and talk about those American Apparel jeans they bought before anybody else (you know the ones). They love everything but hate everyone. They’re better than you because they are true originals — genuine, one-of-a-kind souls. They’re walking contradictions and they’re full of shit. They know this, but they’ll never reveal it.

College is an oasis of self-discovery, experimentation and occasional selfishness, and it’s so freeing. So, instead of attempting to convince your peers that you are indeed the next Hemingway, embrace the moment, enjoy, and discover your true self. As Liz would say, you are the sun.


Brenna is an aspiring journalist, creator and student living in Tucson. She loves the arts, sarcasm, social justice and singing (borderline yodeling) in her car. Catch her drinking obscene amounts of cold brew and writing in her natural habitat — any coffee shop.