When I left for college, I expected to find everything I was looking for. No Dad to insist that leggings aren’t pants, and no Mom to ensure that guys leave the house by 11.

Life was perfect. If I declared every Monday ‘Drunk Bananagrams Monday,’ I would not only make it happen, but have a band of 35 floormates willing to play. And they’d probably make some video, causing me to customize my privacy settings on Facebook.

Butmaybe I wasn’t as self-reliant as I hoped. It’s safe to say that I looked for the guidance and direction I left back home in the all of the wrong places here at school.

One night last year, my friend and I got into one of those 29-to-1 female to male parties where everyone spills beer on the floor, makes out in dark corners of the room and breaks glow sticks in your hair.

As the night wore on, I found myself hectically looking for my friend and found her on the lap of a 300-pound, muscle-top-wearing, questionable drug-using frat guy. She was crying profusely about the EAR 105: ‘Earth Science’ exam she bombed earlier that day. I took her home.

The next morning, I asked my friend why she sat on the lap of someone who could potentially kill her had he been the one giving the lap dance. She said, ‘Not sure. He kinda looked like my dad.’

This taught me that as much as we hate the restrictions of home, we seek direction from pretty much anyone willing to give it.

After going the entirety of last year without any quality direction, I finally found my own Obi-Wan Kenobi, my Neo, my Mr. Miyagi. His name: Danny Fersh. Big nose, small dick. You may have heard of him. He was something of a legend on this campus and wrote The Daily Orange’s humor column up until last semester when he graduated.

Despite my patent admiration for his work, Fersh wasn’t exactly my first choice. Before Fersh there was the SUpercard swiper in Ernie Davis Dining Center, that guy who hands out demo CDs on Marshall Street and my TRF 211: ‘Screenwriting’ professor. She almost became my mentor until I gave her a coffee mug with photos of our faces on it. Damn.

In fact, Fersh didn’t even know my name until his roommate and I became best friends. We were forced to interact one drunken night. A few weeks later, Fersh said he wrote the humor column and suggested I should try to be the next ‘him.’

But it wasn’t until this conversation that I knew Fersh was destined to be my mentor:

Me: Danny, I need you to get online ASAP to make sure this column sounds good. I’m nervous.

Fersh: You gotta’ learn to just write and not worry. Take care of your column and the rest will be OK.

Me: Stop being a cross-breed between my Dad and his Dad. I can’t stop being nervous.

Fersh: Nervousness is the enemy of funny. Find your happy place. The words will fall from the sky.

TEN MINUTES and SEVEN TEXTS LATER

Fersh: Sometimes I have weird and dirty thoughts. Suggestions?

Me: I’ve got some anime porn in my closet. I’ll bring it by tomorrow. Thanks for your unfailing wisdom. Night.

Fersh: It’s my pleasure. Get some rest, kid.

I searched high and low for someone to follow around, and Fersh fit the bill. He was offensively funny, knew no boundaries and most importantly —he made me a better writer.

When we come to college, we’re looking for a life free of restrictions. But when we realize how much we miss the direction of someone older and more experienced, we tend to look for it in the wrong places.

A mentor isn’t that oddly adult-looking kid who sits behind you in philosophy or that frat guy who looks like your dad. A mentor is someone who gives you endless advice and at the end of it all, simply says, ‘It’s my pleasure.’

Kara McFarlane is a sophomore television, radio and film major — assuming ‘radio’ is even a thing anymore —and her column appears every other Thursday for your reading pleasure. Kara can be reached at knmcfarl@syr.edu. Follow her on Twitter at @karanicolemcf.

Published on February 15, 2012 at 12:00 pm