Forget You ( jenlisa ) (gip)

3

J

I honestly wished that romance authors would start tacking some type of Warning: This Shit Will Never Happen to You in Real Life stickers on all their books. That one little thing could save me from getting my hopes up, from expecting each of my new relationships to end differently than the one before.

And maybe, just maybe, if we started with the stickers on the romance books, the trend could spread to colleges who mislead people into thinking that the phrase, "Semester at Sea: Fall in Love with Your Education as You Sail," isn't total bullshit.

When my academic advisor first uttered the words "Semester at Sea," I swooned over all the things the program offered. A "cruise ship remodeled for the classroom," a way to "take your classes on the water," and a way "to expand your worldview by spending time at the numerous port stops in foreign countries."

I envisioned endless nights by the pool, countless hours spent watching the waves roll by, and making friends for a lifetime. I even convinced myself that I'd find the love of my life onboard and we would share the seas together.

Since I was a seventeen-year-old freshman who wanted to get the hell away from my dad, Lisa Manoban, and all things that reminded me of our small beach town, I signed my name on the dotted line for three years of the sea in a row.

I now regretted the hell out of that decision, and the only nice thing I could say was that all the traveling might give me a slight advantage in my post-college career since I was a Visual Arts Design major. (Keyword: might.)

The "endless nights at the pool" were nothing more than false hopes since the pool was always crowded, and it closed at eight o'clock. The constant sight of rolling waves became a reminder of how much I missed seeing the shore at home, and the "friends" I made weren't for a lifetime. They were only mine for a semester at a time.

Most people—smart people, chose to do the "one-semester" option and treated the trip like a summer of studying abroad, and all of their "I'll keep in touch!" promises always fizzled away after a few weeks.

Between the nonexistent Wi-Fi, the predictable daily food in the dining hall, and the never-ending seas, this didn't feel like the education of my dreams anymore. It was a nightmare.

Not only that, but my hopes of finding love at sea were just as dismal. Most of the guys who joined the program were only looking for sex, and the few that weren't? They were only good until the end of the voyage.

In fact, my latest relationship was yet another reminder that only a sad and misinformed person would sign up for three-years aboard this ship.

"Hey, Babe." My boyfriend of two semesters, Mino, smiled as he walked into my room. "What are you up to?"

"Writing down some thoughts," I said, pointing to my calendar. "I'm also counting down the minutes to my last day aboard."

"Cool." He shut the door and handed me a stack of envelopes. "I checked your message box for you. Want to take a break?"

I nodded and closed my notebook. "Let's get coffee at the café for an hour."

"Well, I was thinking I could have you for an hour instead."

"You want to have sex?" I smiled.

"Well, our special version of sex." He walked over to me and pulled me up, walking me over to my bed. "We're still not ready for the real thing yet."

Sighing, I lay back on the bed, fully clothed in a sweatshirt and jeans, and he flipped me over—positioning me on all fours.

"You look so sexy in your sweatshirt, Babe," he whispered into my ear as he held my hips. "Are you ready to feel me?"