Old teacher of mine looked me straight in the eye and told me that I’d “dropped the ball” on the one thing that I devoted my entire high school life on-the school newspaper-two months into my run as EIC. The paper was the one thing that I obsessed over day and night, the one assignment that I never skipped, the one thing that stressed me out infinitely more than college apps. The one EC that was once my passion that became a daily nightmare for me. I know I didn’t have the results to show that I was working. I know that we were missing deadlines, but to hear those words and to know that my dedication didn’t mean shit in the long run was a wake up call that scarred me. I hate him, almost as much as I do myself for caring so much about journalism. I heard that phrase and endured his neglect for the entire damn year. I’m so glad that I’m done with him. And I’d hate journalism as well with a passion if I hadn’t invested so much in it over the years. Every time I think I’m over this, the anger and sadness comes back. I hate him. I hate him with a burning passion, and if I ever hear a variant of that phrase from him one more time I will drop a fucking bowling ball on his head.