Maria Sestito

My friends and I, we feel we did everything right. We did well in high school, went to college – took out loans to pay for it – and then, upon graduating, had GPAs to brag about. Some of us, including me, even worked our asses off while in school to help pay for it and our ramen noodles.

When I bought my car four years ago, I planned on having it forever. I’d run that baby into the ground – travelling across the country, going on reporting trips, road trips and shopping excursions. It’s been everywhere with me and, in many ways, has served as a sort of home away from home. M…

I’ve proclaimed a decent number of things within the margins of this column and, yet, here I go again.

Student insurance is saving my life. The few thousands it costs every semester have equipped me with free prescriptions, low copays, short and long-term therapy options, a dietician, potential allergist and a colonoscopy that I was told should be 100 percent covered.

One of my favorite books as a little girl was Golden Sound Story’s version of “The Princess and the Pea.” The image on the front of the 1991 storybook was of a yellow-haired princess wearing a pink, billowing dress and holding a pillow atop of which was a green pea.

My eyes were closed and I was focused on breathing. I tried to keep it steady, consistent enough that I could eventually stop focusing and just be.

People sure do love to hate on some of the things I love – things that, yes, might be bad for me, but are also harmless in comparison to vices other people might have. One of the biggest targets of their trivial criticisms: soda.

Since living in our studio, Cosmo – my cat – has had an increased appetite. The amount I’ve had to spend on cat food has doubled and most of that extra cost is wasted when he vomits on my bed. (My laundry detergent bill has also increased.) I know this is concerning, so I’ve changed his food…

My first semester at Berkeley didn’t turn out exactly as I had hoped. At best, it was up and down. At worst, I felt like I didn’t belong at the school or in journalism at all.

Do we ever stop growing up?

I’ve never looked forward to having a “winter break” more than I do now that I’m a grad student.

Love doesn’t always find you the way you hope it will. In fact, it usually doesn’t. When it comes – if you’re lucky enough for it to come at all – it’s inconvenient, it’s messy, it’s difficult. And, at the same time, it’s so easy.

“I’m an open book.”

One teacher can make or break how you feel about a subject. I’ve been lucky in my life to have many great teachers, especially in my English and writing classes. My luck has continued as I’ve found mentors in journalism, including my editors at the Register.

When I walked into my class Thursday morning, everyone in the room started singing. There was a big balloon waiting for me in my spot at the table along with some birthday cards handcrafted by my classmate’s children. (They used their best stickers!) And, when the song was coming to an end, …

I have lived my life amidst a constant stream of checkpoints. I grew up believing that once ‘thing A’ happened, life would really start — that everything would be better.

Graduate school is making me do things that I never expected.

UC Berkeley’s campus is beautiful – and hilly.

I don’t know if it’s the way I grew up or if most of us think this way, but when someone does something nice for me my next thought is “Why?”

My last day as a reporter at the Register is Wednesday. It’s been a good run – nearly three years – but it’s time for me to move on. Where am I going? UC Berkeley.

I recently started standing in what I refer to as “the food line.”

There’s something to the term “retail therapy.”

The last few weeks have finally felt like summer in the Bay Area – at least to me.

Cosmo needed a friend. It didn’t even need to be a friend, actually, just something to keep him company while I was working. So, I did a thing. I bought a fish.

While I stuffed my face with bacon cheesecake, bacon upside down cake and what could have been a bacon birthday cake, pounds and pounds of food were going bad around me.

I recently had a night of revivals – Jamestown Revival and The Revivalists performing at Robert Mondavi Winery. Both bands were good, but the special thing about this night was that it was the first of many events I’ll be going to sans a boyfriend.

I once had a Spider-Man T-shirt that read: “I met my boyfriend on the web.” I don’t have that T-shirt any more, but I still have a crush on Spidey.

I gave it my all, but being blonde isn’t for me.

Kathy Griffin can be mean. She’s crass, says gross and inappropriate things and makes fun of people.

The first night of BottleRock, I found myself being taken by the hand and led to the front of the night’s biggest concert by a 17-year-old girl.

After a dip in the ocean and about an hour of reading on the beach, the best thing to do is walk up to the boardwalk to grab a cold lemonade and something to eat.

No matter how much you didn’t like living at home or how badly you wanted to leave, there is something special about going back.

My freshman year of college I went to Emerson in Boston, Massachusetts. It wasn’t the best financial choice, but my gut told me to go there. After a few months of being there, though, my gut told me to leave.

Yountville is the last place I expected to be walking barefoot, carrying my shoes in my hand, doing what must have looked like a walk of shame. Except I wasn’t hungover and the shoes weren’t high-heels.

I need to not only learn how to walk but how to stand.

When I decide I’m going to clean, I typically start with my closet. I love to organize and reorganize my clothes, sometimes planning a few outfits ahead of time or even putting a few items in a discard/donate pile. This week when I went through my closet, though, I got a little sad.

Like the responsible adult I am, I file my taxes each year.

After a few failed months living with my ex and a couple of weeks couch surfing, I’m moving into my own place. It’ll be the first time in my life living without some sort of roommate, housemate, live-in boyfriend, ex-boyfriend or parent. And, I gotta say, I’m excited.

I have sort of a thing for Christmas trees. Not an obsessive thing – more of a nostalgic thing.

My dad got engaged over the weekend and told me through a text message.