Hello Darkness, My Old Friend *

So, ALLEGEDLY, I graduated with a B.A. in Journalism from Indiana University a month ago.

I KNOW, I don't believe it either, but I do have pictures to prove it.


And on that day, the sun shone down from the heavens as if to say "behold this miracle, and bask in the glow of scholastic achievment and ungodly amounts of student loans."


My parents may hold more degrees than me, but check out who's got the height advantage (note: if everyone else can wear stupid wedge shoes this summer, then so can I, people. So can I).


In front of Memorial Stadium, where football games are lost and dreams are crushed.


I didn't even get to sit on the floor of Assembly Hall-I'm in the very first row. Can you see me??!?!!??!?!


At the pre-ceremony School of Journalism reception, in the basement of Memorial Hall. I don't know; it was nice, but had this kind of "air-raid shelter" feel to it.


These banners were rolled out just in time for graduation...I can't shake the feeling that they're a mean-spirited jab at people in Telecomm, but maybe I'm reading too much into it.


Why, thank you Indiana Memorial Union!!


Sniff sniff...


Wow, the J-school is ugly. If I ever get employed somewhere, perhaps I'll donate money (or working lightbulbs...I mean, come on).


Ernie Pyle Hall got all multi-media all of a sudden, with like 8,000 flat screen tv's everywhere. i can't help but think this money could be better spent (note: see above).


Who needs the Trevi Fountain?


Awkward smile, check. Squinting eyes, check. Naked mermaid in background, check. This is "America's Next Top Model" material, folks.


Shockingly, the path did not burst into flames when I stepped onto it.


The air-conditioning units ruin the look just a tad...


It's ART, people, don't question it (I never went inside the art museum, does that make me a bad Hoosier?!?!?)


Umm, Memorial Hall? Maybe? I forget...and I had at least 4 classes there. Whatever. I'm beginning to see why it took me so long to graduate. I don't pay attention, and I have a terrible memory. Not conducive to scholarly pursuits.


Sometimes I force my parents to pose in front of the Sample Gates and THEY WILL LIKE IT.


Look, this was taken the day after my 8 billion finals ended. This is what 6 hours of sleep in 7 days looks like. SEXY AS ALL HELL.


Where all the dirty pseudo-hippies and scary teenage townies know your name.


I made my parents walk all the way over to Swain East and West so I could show the buildings how much I hate them and the math/science that goes on there. Take THAT Swain buildings, I hate you, you're gross (especially you, East; I did NOT appreciate that 3 hour astronomy class last semester).


Remember when my mom and I came to visit the campus and we thought that when everyone talked about the Sample Gates they meant some kind of gate replica, a sort of architectural hors d' ouevre (pretend that's the correct spelling, I'm a college graduate and FAR too busy to check)? I still don't know who Sample is.


Awww, Kirkwood.


"After $1382138238121823889 spent in tuition, the Billinsons now own all of Bloomington!"


I still love the Student Building, although I could have done without the freezer in the zoology lab, the very one that contained all the dead animals. deciding to quit working on the hottest day of last semester. The smell that wafted up to the third floor and disturbed my anthropology class was just as awesome as you might expect.


My college campus is prettier than yours, ha ha ha


The creepy-ass Herman B. Wells statue (hey Eric, remember when I made you pose with him in the snow?!!??!).


I am not at all amused by this photo session.


Behold, the shock and awe.





Seriously, did anyone actually believe they would let me graduate? I sure as hell did not. I think I have about 674839 e-mails between me and SOJ advisors saved because every hour for the last 5 years, a different problem came up and threatened to make me a permanent undergrad.





*If you got the Simon & Garfunkel/"The Graduate" reference, you win at life. Let's get married and have pop-culturally aware babies!

Boobs AND Catholics for the price of one blog entry

Guys, if I told you how many hits this blog got in the 5 hours after I posted the link to the last entry in my AIM profile under the heading “WARNING: THIS ENTRY IS ABOUT BREASTS”, you would be SHOCKED at how pervy you all are (64, guys-64 different people clicked the link in my profile in a mere number of hours, about twice as many who usually click the first day I post a new entry when boobs aren’t involved. This isn’t including the CLASSY people who visit via the link on my facebook or have it bookmarked and aren’t swayed by promises of mammary glands. FOR SHAME.). I can’t really tell you who all the perverts are, because while I do have a counter thing, it’s very, very unspecific regarding location (i.e. “Virginia”, “North America”, “The Solar System Or Possibly A Little Further Out There”) so it does nothing except confuse me.

Anyway the point is people who have me on their buddy lists are sick and twisted and have dirty minds. Hence why I choose to be buddies with them.

Also...

REQUIRED MENTION OF ALL THE CRAP SURROUNDING "THE DA VINCI CODE":

A movie based on a fictional book in which there is graffiti on the Mona Effing Lisa: BLASPHEMOUS

A coke-head politician who can't even pronounce "nuclear" claiming that God talks to him: NOT BLASPHEMOUS-IN FACT LET'S ELECT HIM TO BE OUR PRESIDENT!

I love this country.

PS-While I'm busy offending all the Christians, I'd like to, as a public service, warn the Catholics to spell-check their angry offensive bumper stickers, like the one I encountered in traffic yesterday. Because while "you can't be pro-choice and b Catholic", apparently you are allowed to follow the "2 Live Crew Big Book of Grammar" (2 legit 2 b good at spelling...yo) and be Catholic. I mean...maybe it's factually correct, but WHY do you need this on a bumper sticker? The tackiness, it burns.


DISCLAIMER: I'm kidding, guys, and really only speaking about the religious crazies out there (and Lord knows-ha! Funny!-every religion's got them; my own is filled with so much in-fighting and judging that we can't even really be affected by all the other folks who want to kill/convert us.). Please don't be mad. Besides, soon the time will come when we'll ALL need to join together and fight those damn Scientologists.

WARNING: THIS ENTRY IS ABOUT BREASTS

Ask the kids to leave the room, because not only am I talking about breasts here, I'm talking about breasts that are not filled with goo in Ziploc bags inside of women who have been made to feel so inadequate by their society that they paid money for doctors to slice their breasts open and have plastic bags of goo placed inside them. And if the kids find out that breasts aren't supposed to be hard (or touching your chin), they are going to be confused and it's going to be a DISASTER.

I just want to put this out there: from this moment I am boycotting the show "Medium". I just don't feel comfortable perpetuating the myth that if you have breasts that are real and on the, ahem, larger side, they will stick straight up and pointed towards the ceiling when you're lying down on your back.

Do you know what I'm talking about? Because she has her little psychic dreams, there are a ton of scenes where Patricia Arquette is in bed. She has large, non-plastic breasts and it is SO OBVIOUS she is wearing a bra. WHO DOES THAT?! NO ONE, THAT'S WHO. Because when you're that size, the bras are not built like lovely little delicate pieces of flitty lingerie. They are like utility belts; sturdy, not pretty, and used to haul large things around all day.

I don't know about Ms. Arquette's specific anatomy (other than the fact that she has no neck, but that's an issue for another entry), but when a human lies down wearing a bra like that, and I'm not going to get too personal here because I've made it a habit not to discuss my breasts on the internet (anymore...), one might find that the underwire might dig into one's ribcage and cause one to cry from the pain and discomfort and possibly get violent. Seriously. A couple of months ago, I noticed two weird marks on my inner arm that looked like bruised puncture wounds. Weird and unnerving. After much detective work (i.e. freaking out and googling "mystery marks on arm please no weird diseases" and calling my mom in a panic), I discovered that it was no strange exotic illness. Rather, the wire on my bra had gone rogue! You guys, I am so used to being in pain from that damn thing that I DID NOT NOTICE WHEN IT CAUSED ME PHYSICAL HARM.

I say ENOUGH, enough already. I'm not proposing we burn our bras, ladies. But I AM saying that if men want a large-breasted "special night-time companion" (that was in case you didn't get those damn kids out of the room when I ALREADY WARNED YOU for God's sake), we need to do our part so that they will be prepared and not alarmed when things aren't quite so Arquette-esque (Patricia. They should hopefully not be expecting David. Things get a bit confusing when Alexis enters the picture...).



(Also...they shouldn't expect you to, like, see dead people or anything. I mean, that's true for all women. No one has proven that breast-size has anything to do with psychic abilities. And ladies...if a scientist tries to get you to participate in such a study, for the love of God ask for some credentials.)

Do you think he failed because even the oxygen finds him unbelievably pretentious?

Guys, I’m sorry. I’m aware that I have neglected this blog and that many of you dutifully continue to check to see if I’ve updated and when you discover that it’s the same entry for weeks and weeks I imagine your inner monologue to sound something like this:

You: “Well, here I am busy at my Important Real Life Job and I take the time out of my day to see what Jenn is complaining about now and I find that she’s too busy being unemployed to update this thing. Awesome. Considering that blogging might be her only skill in life and she has nothing better to do, you’d think she would get it together.”

To which I respond:

Me: “Wow, you guys are really, really mean when you’re thinking to yourselves. Why are we even friends?!”

I’ve been a tad bit busy…what with all the finals and turning 23 and packing and crying about finals/turning 23/packing and GRADUATING. That’s right kids. Two weeks ago I was a completely overwhelmed and aimless twenty-something woman. Now I am a completely overwhelmed and aimless twenty-something woman…with a B.A. in Journalism (and minor in English-don’t forget that entirely not-useless component, please).

But more on all this later! Right now we have a larger, far more ominous topic to discuss. Let’s begin with an open letter to the current object of my intense hatred and violent loathing (sit down Ann, I’ve grown tired of you and your hideous face):

Dear David Blaine,
I AM NOT AMUSED BY YOU.

Love,
Jenn

PS- Seriously. Stop it.

You guys, what’s his problem? No I mean REALLY, what the hell is with this tool? I don’t get it. NO ONE ASKS HIM TO DO THESE ASSININE STUNTS, and then we are supposed to either rejoice when he accomplishes or feel disappointed when he fails at these stupid scenarios. I don’t care, and I don’t think I’m alone in my feelings.

Was there a single person actually upset when he didn’t complete his little fish-tank thing? How does him holding his breath for 9 minutes help us or better our society AT ALL? Or how is it even entertaining? His little stunts don’t even make sense. David Copperfield chaining himself to a building and then detonating a bomb, and then escaping…eh, it’s a little much, but I get it. Living in a bowl of water for a week (during which he had oxygen to breathe) and THEN holding his breathe DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE. If he lived in the fish-tank for a week with no air, I’d get how that is interesting. But this made NO SENSE.

AND AND AND!!! The title of the show!! “David Blaine: Drowned Alive”….what?!?! I wasn’t aware how common it was to drown dead people, but apparently it happens often if one has to acknowledge when a live person is drowned.

While we’re on the topic of People Who Shouldn’t Be Famous And Who Are Probably More Than A Little Sociopath-ish, I’d like to address something that’s been bothering me for awhile and I tried to ignore it but….seriously, please tell me you’ve all seen Dr. Phil’s commercials for match.com. Please also tell me that you noticed his little slogan for his dating program. If you didn’t, here it is:

“Mind. Find. Bind.”

DOES THIS MAKE ANYONE ELSE THINK OF THE B.T.K. (BIND TORTURE KILL) SERIAL MURDERER?

Dr. Phil already terrifies me. Add an online dating service and THE WORST SLOGAN EVER IN LIFE THAT IS EVEN WORSE THAN THE LAST HORRIFIC SLOGAN I DISCOVERED and that’s a horror film right there.