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.

Mrs. Brown, you've got a lovely daughter

In the first picture is Peter Noone, of Herman's Hermits fame. Below him you will find Matt Damon, otherwise known as The Most Aryan Man In The WORLD. Coincidence? Or is this part of a far more sinister plot on behalf of Mr. Noone to clone himself and infiltrate the Affleck camp and learn the innermost workings of Bennifer 2.0? Only time will tell.

I can tell you this much; I ought to be a casting director, and I should also write a sweepingly dramatic biopic in the vein of A Beautiful Mind about the rise and fall of the 52nd most influential pop group of the 1960's (the ranking system is all mine-they outranked The Troggs because at least their stupid name doesn't sound like a tool you fix plumbing with, but fell behind Strawberry Alarm Clock because without them I would be unaware of the delicious combination that is incense and peppermints).

I can't see such a movie NOT being a major Oscar contender-they were lyrical geniuses, their work echoing the sentiments of a nation in turmoil. In this groundbreaking single, the Hermits detail a tyrannical political system gone awry:

"I'm Henry The Eighth, I am!

Henry The Eighth I am, I am!

I got married to the widow next door

She's been married seven times before

And every one was an Henry (Henry)

She wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam (no Sam)

I'm her eighth old man, I'm Henry

Henry The Eighth I am!"

A delight. Where else would be learn the little-known historical fact that Henry VIII was so-called not because he was the 8th in his lineage, but because he was the 8th husband of a woman who only married men of that name?! Note to all the skeptics: these guys were British, people. They are scientifically proven to be better than us at all things historical. Legally, we can't question them on anything to pertaining to the monarchy, classical music, or Wham. I think it's in the Magna Carta.

Or how about this epic ballad of love, loss, and redemption:

"Mrs. Brown, you've got a lovely daughter

Girls as sharp as her are somethin' rare

But it's sad, she doesn't love me now

She's made it clear enough it ain't no good to pine"

Simply stunning. Their use of painfully descriptive words to detail the anguish involved is breathtaking (note: "sad", 3rd line). The speaker is absolutely devastated; this eloquent word-smith, whose use of English tells us that he is above par in terms of intelligence ("somethin'", "ain't no good"), had finally managed to find one of those rare, sharp women, and now he's lost her. The social conscience of the song-writer is apparent as well; while Simon & Garfunkel detailed a morally reprehensible illicit affair with a girl's mother in "Mrs. Robinson", Herman's Hermits remind us that we are meant to use mothers to get to their daughters, not the other way around.

I regretfully must end this post now, but I leave you with my favorite excerpt from the works of this musical power-house, from the classic "Dandy":

"Dandy, Dandy

Chattin' up the ladies

Ticklin' their fancy

Pourin' out your charms

To meet your own demands

And you turn it off at will

Huh-oh, they long for

Dandy, Dandy

Knockin' on the back door

Climbin' through the window

Hubby's gone away

And while the cat's away

The mice are gonna play

Uh-hmm, you low-down

Dandy, Dandy, Dandy"

Bob Dylan who?

Satan's Soft Drink

Alright, it’s time to come clean; who’s the jackass who came up with the new Dr. Pepper “Berries & Cream”? I want to know right now what kind of person thought those flavors would gel together, and why said person has a job developing new products to ingest as he clearly either has no tongue or his taste buds are playing a dirty, dirty trick on him. I still can not accept Diet Cherry Vanilla Coke on a moral level; if we allow two flavors such as vanilla and cherry to cohabitate, what’s next? And do we really want to expose our children to such despicable debauchery? It’s just not natural. But now I am expected to drink a sick concoction of berries and cream and the crazy, unidentifiable flavor of Dr. Pepper?! THE TIME HAS COME TO TAKE A STAND.

Ok, here’s the thing though. My biggest issue is not this bastardized melee of completely non-cohesive flavors, but rather their horrific tagline:

“Get lost in the flavor. Get berried in cream.”

What. The. Mother. Hell.

sjejencidsiwkql;sdodjejiqwio

Oh, sorry, my brain just exploded from the stupid.

First of all...ok, I don't even know what the first of it all is as it is all equally bad. Ok, ok, I got it! First of all: ignoring the clever* word-play, who wants to get lost and buried in anything? This makes me think of an avalanche which makes me think of Alaska which makes me think of "Alive" which makes me think of cannibalism. So drinking this "beverage"= eating your buddy's arm.

But if you are going to be buried in something, should it be something as thick as cream?! You won't be able to breathe, people. Think about it. Not too hard though, you don't want to get a panic attack thinking about suffocating in a giant vat of cream.

"Oh, if only I didn't take that wrong turn! I can't believe I got lost in the flavor AGAIN!" you'll think to yourself as you sink further into the lactic abyss.




*completely non-clever

Team Grier!

Any readers of this blog working in law enforcement? I need you to run some plates for me (note: I’ve wanted to ask someone to “run some plates” for YEARS. I also want to say “book ‘em, Dan-o” and rough up some hooligans):

22A-9996 -IN 0406 PA
Make: Dodge
Model: Van

The owner of this vehicle inadvertently dropped their parking ticket under my windshield wiper at the main library and then got into their Dodge van (parked at expired meter #22) and they are probably just PANICKING trying to get this ticket back (I fully expect to see posters around that read “LOST TICKET” with a picture of a smiling child hugging her beloved parking ticket any day now).

Look, I’m not trying to locate this person for vengeance. I merely think it is my civic duty to blow the whistle and get this bastard the hell out of the proverbial gene pool (he can hang out at the picnic tables for awhile, or maybe the roped off diving board area, just nowhere that his DNA can taint our human race). Did he think that I would return to my car and a.) seriously believe that I had a ticket from a meter that had run out 4 minutes earlier (although those parking enforcers are Satan’s minions-they are everywhere and pretty much the bane of my existence) and b.) that I wouldn’t even look at the ticket and just pay it? And if I didn’t look at it (during which I would notice that it doesn’t say “Ford” under make, or “decrepit piece of crap” under style-KIDDING, kidding, Big Red please just make it back to Virginia, baby, I’ll buy you a car wash), how would I know how much to pay? DOES HE THINK I AM IN THE HABIT OF SENDING BLANK CHECKS TO PARKING SERVICES?

So I want to find out the name and address of this winner so that I can personally return his ticket to him. And possibly slash the tires on his Dodge van. And MAYBE there will be some light slapping involved.



On an unrelated note, how psyched is Tallulah Belle Moore/Willis right now you guys? T.B., Rumor, Scout, and Bob Geldof’s daughters, Tiger Lily and Fifi LeTrixieCrap or whatever her name is should just throw a huge party in honor of the Paltrow-Martins and the Holmes/Psycruises, and Shields/No Name Husband Because She Wears The Calvins In The Family. Do you think that Tiger Lily Geldof ever thought she’d be able to go into a room where her name wasn’t the biggest cruel parental joke in history? I love this. And how is Moses looking the most normal out of all this?!?! Somewhere in rock and roll heaven, Frank Zappa’s smiling and saying “See, Dweezil? I told you and Moon Unit that the day would come when your names wouldn’t be the batshit-craziest ones in the phone book.”

I really think this is awesome. I can’t wait until celebrities run out of ridiculous words/non-names and just start doling out Prince-esque symbols to their kids (Like “§ Spears”, or “Ω Aniston”). As someone who grew up cursing her parents for giving her the most popular girl’s name of 1983, sentencing her to a life of having to use her last initial to distinguish herself from the 40 other Jennifers in every classroom she ever stepped foot in, I can appreciate a little creativity.

But Tom Cruise, you just named your kid “Suri”, having your P.R. person (this has replaced Naomi Campbell’s maid as the job in Hollywood most likely to literally kill you, by the way) explain it away as meaning something in Hebrew (debatable, but whatev) or Persian. TWO CULTURES THAT NEITHER YOU NOR YOUR SPAWN NOR YOUR SPAWN’S INCUBATOR ARE ACTUALLY MEMBERS OF. You are a delight, Tommy. Don’t go changing.

Or how about Shield’s kid, Grier? I want to mock this, but I don’t think it’s wise, seeing as how in 20ish years when Grier and Suri stage an epic good vs. evil battle for control of the world, I’m going to be Team Grier 100% (seriously, this is some freaky, sci-fi shizz you guys. Born on the same day, in the same hospital, to enemy parents? Christians, let me know if this is part of your book because I feel like it must be-mine’s got too much of the “don’t eat this” and “don’t lie down with that” kind of stuff that we really don’t get into the good Apocalyptic specifics). Ooooh, I wonder what team Moses will be on, cause I’m siding with him. You know, just in case there’s a large body of water and angry Egyptians involved.

Have you accepted this blog entry into your life?

Today I was walking to class and I saw the most ridiculous thing ever. Right outside of Ballentine (where the grad students have been protesting) there were two guys in suits sitting by a sign that said "ASK THE MORMON MISSIONARIES A QUESTION".

Could you be more lazy, please? Look, that's not how this works; I don't bring my wayward, sinning soul to YOU, you come to ME. What happened to the good old days when they went out and rode the C bus and pounded the pavement, looking for those sinners? They need to go to the people. I mean, we all know how I feel about proselytizing (if you need to advertise your religion...all I'm saying), but I get that part of Christianity is needing to "spread the word" and blah blah blah and I am secure enough in my beliefs not to be swayed by some guy on the bus who wants to give me a free bible (but bring hats or t-shirts and maybe we'll talk). But you need to put in the effort.

I can't believe that they don't understand that they annoy (and offend-sorry, it comes off as CRAZY arrogant regardless of your intent) people and that no one is going to actively seek them out; that's like the telemarketers setting up a kiosk in the mall and expecting people to stop by and express their dissatisfaction with their current long distance carrier. Ain't gonna happen. Oh, and for the record, I'm not picking on the Mormons, and i have friends who are Mormon and haven't told me (at least not to my face) that I'm on the highway to hell-this goes for everyone else out there P.R.ing it up for the Lord. ESPECIALLY the Jehovah's Witnesses who come to my house and ring a doorbell that's mere inches away from a mezuzah and see that my dad wears a yarmulke and STILL try to do their little song and dance. Dude...he already has the accessories. You're too late.

All she wants to do is DANCE ( and make romance, but dancing is really the focus here)

I just watched "West Side Story" for the first time in years. I seriously don't remember it being this horrifically lame. I also don't remember Natalie Wood's faux-Rican accent as being Russian. Had she ever met a Puerto-Rican person in her life? Did she know they don't come from Eastern-Europe? I just have to wonder. Also, I think it is SO cute how Joan of Arcadia, aka, Amber Tamblyn has followed in her daddy's footsteps, taking on the Angsty White Teen roles (he plays the lead Jet, in case you couldn't tell from the creepy cheek-bones).

Now I'm not an expert on gang wars or anything (I know, I had to dispel any rumors floating around out there), but I am fairly certain that if these people were to wander into modern day Los Angeles, the Jets would be killed within 15, 20 seconds tops. And I don't mean by gangs, I mean by drivers. The whole dancing/snapping in the street thing just wouldn't fly. But seriously, the Crips and Bloods would probably pool their weapons together to get rid of the Jets. The Sharks MIGHT fair a bit better; their clothes and hair are MUCH cooler. Plus it would be harder to get to them; they spend most of their time dancing on roof tops.

I kind of wish that I lived in a musical, if only for the fact that I've always felt I needed my own theme song. Plus sometimes you just need to dance it out. My new favorite thing is to listen to my iPod while grocery shopping (which I HATE, by the way; the idea that I must purchase AND prepare my own meals is just LUDICROUS. Who thought of that brilliant plan? Clearly the same jackass who decided that people should work in exchange for money). Guys, trust me, it is SO MUCH FUN. Because it's kind of like you're in a movie. I even have a specific playlist for it (NOTE: the songs MUST be upbeat-no one wants to be doing that weirdo fruit molestation thing to check if the melon is ripe while "Tears in Heaven" is blasting), a playlist which MUST include "Mambo #5" (I don't know why, but it is the single greatest song to listen to while grocery shopping, it's something scientific that I can't get into right now). You MUST be cautious though. Two things to keep in mind:
1. Enjoy the music, but remember that you are still in public, a public that might happen to be located in a conservative Midwestern state where your singing along to Nazareth's "Hair of the Dog" might not be too appreciated. In my defense, there are some song lyrics that require you to literally scream them. Like the song "The Hippy Hippy Shake"-you are legally obligated to yell the first line-"FOR GOODNESS SAKE! I GOT THE HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE!". I can't explain it, but I can't NOT do it. So at least I was singing "Hair of the Dog" softly. Granted, it's a little disconcerting for someone to melodically declare "now you're messin with a/a son of a biiiiitch", regardless of the decibel.
2. In keeping with number 1, please keep in mind that listening to an upbeat catchy tune might alter your usual gait (the highly feared "Saturday Night Fever" Syndrome). Do keep in mind that no one else can hear your music. So the guy buying eggs is going to wonder why you are trying to seduce him with an especially provocative walk down the dairy aisle ( for the same reasons, I urge you not to include the Bangles' classic "Walk Like An Egyptian"-why even tempt yourself?)

Go now! Try it out for yourself! And while you're there, please get me some vegetarian sushi and green tea! Because I am out and really want some right now! Thanks friend!

(This me, visually representing for you how sad I will be if you don't go get that sushi. )

(This is me, happy again because I convinced my Gigantic Chin of Destruction to go buy said sushi for me. Seriously, look at that thing. My rollerderby name will be "Jaws O' Life".)

(This is Mick. He has nothing to with anything. Except I suggest you include "Honky Tonk Women" and "Get Off My Cloud" on your Grocery Mix)

If you build it (and include voting spheres and crazy people)...they will come

Remember that lame, totally offensive and mortifyingly unfunny movie "As Good As It Gets"? The one that teaches us that OCD so debilitating that you can barely leave your apartment is HILARIOUS? And also you deserve an anxiety disorder if you're grumpy? I hated it (could you tell? Were you waiting for me to say "...but none of that matters because the predictable plot was a real charmer"?). Besides the aforementioned, what I disliked the most was the romantic relationship between Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson. Were we really supposed to believe that they could be a couple? Please. No, I'm not talking about the age difference here. I'm talking about Helen Hunt ( or "A Poor Man's Jodie Foster, But Only If He Is So Poor That He Can't Afford Bridget Fonda" as I like to call her). Her forehead is INSANE, people. Plus she's whiny and her bangs look stupid and she over-acts to the point where she seems almost violent and she named her baby Makalaikalikila'lainika'lika or something like that because she like visited Hawaii ONCE. Jack Nicholson may be pushing 96, but in no way is Helen Hunt as good as it gets when it comes to his dating options.

So the point of all that was not to bash the movie or A.P.M.J.F.B.O.I.H.I.S.P.T.H.C.A.B.F. Remember the hilarious scene that was possibly supposed to be moving when Greg Kinnear is so inspired by the "beauty" of Helen Hunt that he breathlessly declares "I have to paint you!" and all of a sudden he is cured of all his injuries and his faith is restored, all because he gazed upon The Magical Forehead (it's kind of like the Shroud of Turin)? WELL I myself had a moment of divine inspiration the other day all thanks to FOX broadcasting and what I have determined, after much scientific and analytical research, was the single greatest television event since the moon landing.

Who watched "Unan1mous", you guys?

WAS IT NOT AMAZING?! OH MY GOD, my life was CHANGED. Amazing. AMAZING.

If you missed it, I will tell you all you need to know:
1. Contestants are locked underground in a bunker-type dwelling
2. They have to unanimously (although if it has to be unanimous, then why the "1" in the cutesy spelling of the title? it should be "UnanALLNOTONEimous". Clever!) decide who among them to give 1.5 million dollars to, and if anyone leaves then the money is cut in half.
3. They have voting SPHERES, you guys. Spheres. Jeff Probst is sitting on an island with a piece of notebook paper and construction paper taped around a magic marker to make it look "savage-ey" and like an authentic island magic marker, and these guys have magical voting spheres with dials and OH MY GOD IT IS SO GOOD I HOPE YOU WATCHED IT BECAUSE I NEED TO TALK IT OUT.
4. It is basically the greatest televised event since the moon landing. Seriously.

The show is intense to an INSANE degree-like you really believe that they will literally be stuck underground until they all vote unanimously. Like they could be stuck underground for 45 YEARS or MAYBE EVEN LONGER. Plus they have this ridiculous blue overhead lighting-it makes everyone nervous and ugly. FANTASTIC.

Now, if I were on this show, I would appeal to any kind of reasonable thinking and explain to my fellow contestants that there is no rational way to decide who is more deserving and we would just draw straws, a winner would be chosen, and the show would be over in 3 minutes and FOX would hate me but whatever, at least I wouldn't have to live in an underground bunker with lights that would make me look ugly. But since reality tv contestants are cast exclusively from a race of people known as Americans With Below Average Intelligence But A Highly And Falsely Elevated Sense Of Self (AWBAIBAHAFESOS's, and they are still waiting for their little bubble in the SAT personal info section), it was not to be (incidentally, we really need the AWBAIBAHFESOS's to join our alliance on the ground in Iraq, as more and more military folks speak up about the bad situation there; these fine human specimens won't understand that it's virtually un-winable, PLUS they will exude an arrogant self-confidence about their ability to be victorious. Plus, I think we all know that if we aren't willing to spit in the face of our enemies and fight for the love of washed-up rappers, then the terrorists have WON*.)

As if the show couldn't get any better, at the end of the last episode, they divulged the 347th twist in only 20 minutes- all the contestants have some kind of shameful "secret". But they are worded so weirdly that you really have no clue what the secret means- like one of the guys "spent time in a mental health facility" or something. Which could either mean that the guy felt a little down and needed some prozac...or he is going to kill you as you sleep in your little bunker and blame it on the 12th of his 42 different personalities. You don't know, and THERE IS THE FUN OF IT.

The show is on Wednesdays, and since everyone is secretly watching "American Idol" by themselves, too ashamed to admit it, just watch "Unan1mous", PLEASE. Just do it. It will change your life. I have even thought up a slogan for it: "Unan1mous: No one knows for sure that it doesn't cure cancer!"


*"Then the terrorists have won" is a registered trademark of the Bush administration. It's also the pending title of an in-production reality show that pits a team of Americans against Al Qaeda's finest- the Americans will be sent out into their daily lives, but if they unknowingly say or do anything on a list of 2192139839821391823182937198312897 things, a bell will ring signaling that their seemingly innocuous action has caused the victory of the terrorists, and therefore the inherent downfall of the USA and sweet, sweet freedom. Scientists are working day and night to resurrect Senator Joseph McCarthy to act as host, although Seacrest is hardly a bad second choice.

Guess Who's Back...

HEY FRIENDS REMEMBER ME!

Listen, I have not been able to update as I have been extremely busy spring-breaking. You didn't really expect me to take my laptop to Cancun did you? Exactly.

Of course that would have been awkward seeing as how I spent my vacation in Burke. It would have really pissed me off to have had to take my laptop to Cancun, leave it there for a week of beer bonging and sexual relations with gross frat boys, and then have to go pick it up again. Plus I could forsee an absolute disaster if there were any wet t-shirts left near the power cord.

This is going to possibly push you all over the edge, but I don't have time for one of my trademark Witty, Brilliant, and Sexy Blog Entries right now. I invite you to visit the archives for some Classic Jenn. You can re-live the time when I complained about classes. Or when I complained about my car. Or the president. Or Indiana. Or my health. If you want a challenge, you can try to find an entry where I mention the Beatles. But that might be tough. I suggest you try to find an entry with one or more numbers in the date.

DON'T BE TOO SAD because I will be back soon with my theory that Simon Cowell is a prophet, and my thoughts about how we should round up all the freshmen and keep them in a warehouse far away from me.

Why I Love Bob Dylan

Because his brain matter creates things like this:

Oh my name it is nothin'
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I's taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side.

Oh the history books tell it
They tell it so well
The cavalries charged
The Indians fell
The cavalries charged
The Indians died
Oh the country was young
With God on its side.

Oh the Spanish-AmericanWar had its day
And the Civil War too
Was soon laid away
And the names of the heroes
I's made to memorize
With guns in their hands
And God on their side.

Oh the First World War, boys
It closed out its fate
The reason for fightingI never got straight
But I learned to accept it
Accept it with pride
For you don't count the dead
When God's on your side.

When the Second World War
Came to an end
We forgave the Germans
And we were friends
Though they murdered six million
In the ovens they fried
The Germans now too
Have God on their side.

I've learned to hate Russians
All through my whole life
If another war starts
It's them we must fight
To hate them and fear them
To run and to hide
And accept it all bravely
With God on my side.

But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we're forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side.

In a many dark hour
I've been thinkin' about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can't think for you
You'll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side.

So now as I'm leavin'
I'm weary as Hell
The confusion I'm feelin'
Ain't no tongue can tell
The words fill my head
And fall to the floor
If God's on our side
He'll stop the next war.


And his genetic matter creates things like this:














GOD. I know, right?

I bet that if anyone who knew me in 8th grade is reading this right now, they just can not believe that 8 years later they still have to put up with me talking about this man. To them I say: please see above. Even if you are a heterosexual male, you have to admit that he is so, so pretty. Also, while I was searching for pictures, I came across this

issue of "Details" which I totally bought at CVS and who's cover hung on the wall above my bed in my room in high-school. Uh, and ps what happened to all those musicians!?? Remember Maxwell?! Just looking at this is making me angry at Jewel. Whatever, this was very not the point of this post. The point was to show my appreciation for a scrawny Jewish boy from the midwest named Robert Zimmerman. And his killer genes.

Oh, yeah, the music's not bad either.

More fun than a barrel full of ...oh God I'm going to be sick

So when I say “man…today was one of those days”, you should know by now that my rough/weird days are about a bajilliothousand rougher and/or, but probably and, weirder than the average human’s rough/weird days.

Hold on one sec-I hope the ridiculously loud woman with the horrifying bleach job is enjoying reading this blog entry over my shoulder as I type it in the computer lab. I can see you reading as I type these very words. Ha, goodbye, go yell in another designated quiet area please.

Ok, back to business.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006:

- Woke up late at precisely 8:43 after 2 hours of sleep. I can feel my eyeballs getting ready to strike as I head to the bathroom (i.e. where the Dreaded Hard Contact Lenses live. Now, right here as I am writing this sentence is when I come to the realization that there’s no cute little saying for green eyes. If you have blue eyes you can call them “baby-blues” and not repeat the word eyeballs again. Or if you have dark eyes you can pun it out, something like “wow, those plastic torture devices sure make my brown eyes blue” which would be so very clever and witty and, I’m going to come right out and say it, charming. What do I say about my eyes? This hardly seems fair, it’s not even like they’re hazel, the bastard child of the iris color spectrum. Sorry, it’s true. You’re either brown or green; pick a side, Switzerland. Ok before I get hate mail from a bunch of murky-eyed people, just know that this is coming from a place of extreme frustration. Today has not been good. Just blink back those tears and know that I love you-besides, I know my eyes always look even greener when they’re bloodshot from crying, so I just did you a favor. You’re welcome!).


-Switch on TV (the one in my bedroom is literally always tuned to CNN. Seriously, I don’t even know where the remote is, there’s no use for it. I know when I wake up it’s Miles and Soledad, when I get home from class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Wolf is signing off and Lou “The Bush Administration Is Going To Literally Give Me A Heart-Attack If I Don’t Calm Down And Move To A Secluded Beach Away From Wire-Taps And Arab-Owned Ports And Not-So-Sharp-Shootin’ VP’s As Soon As Physically Possible” Dobbs is coming on to raise his blood-pressure just a little bit more.). The CNN morning show is live from New Orleans. Within exactly 8 minutes of waking up I am seeing Soledad O’Brien ALONE with only a camera man on Bourbon Street, being accosted by people who are still out from the night before, never, EVER a good thing, and who are still drunk and have absolutely zero interest in the, and I swear to God this is fact, strands of green Mardi Gras beads with big white plastic disks that say “CNN” on them, that Soledad is trying to hand out. Lady, these people need two things right now: a place to throw up and a damn FEMA trailer. They don’t want your effing beads. But apparently they DO also want to show their asses on national television, which is what one winner does as he practically pushes Soledad over as he clamors to get in front of her to PULL HIS PANTS DOWN, which he succeeds in doing as Soledad just stares open-mouthed, clutching her precious “CNNecklaces”-patent pending, witness that this is mine, ya’ll. And for some reason which I’m still unclear about, the camera guy doesn’t. Change. Shots. He just lingers on this image of Soledad O’Brien on screen with a drunk man’s nether-region. Perhaps this camera man knew how much Americans like to view the ass of a stranger before their morning coffee. Or maybe he’s aware of some kind of FCC code that grants immunity from decency standards if your city is practically wiped off the face of the earth and you get no help from the government and there are dead people floating in the streets, but everyone forgets about you for months until a holiday rolls around where Snoop Dogg can show up and video-tape women exposing themselves for plastic jewelry that we were all given as kids to play dress-up with and we didn’t need to exchange our dignity for them. But who’s to say.
I had to shut off this broadcast for the record books and dash out to class just as Miles O’Brien said, referring to a man who had left Louisiana after Katrina but returned for the Zulu parade that he had attended every year since it began, “Wow, that’s really wonderful; he lost his house, but he still has the same spot to watch the parade that he’s had for years. That’s terrific.”


-Realized I might be the only ethical person in my media ethics class. It looks like in ten years my classmates will all be rich and successful and soul-less, and I’LL be the one shivering on the street corner with a Welfare check. But I’ll have my ethics and morals to keep me warm, so…I think we know who wins.


-Watched a video on small-pox AGAIN. Started scratching forearms violently AGAIN. Cursed myself for taking a class entitled “Plagues, Viruses, and Diseases” after I’d given up the good anti-anxiety meds. AGAIN.


-Had what had to have been one of the top five worst experiences of my life in my Bio-anthropology class. We had to watch 20 minutes of raw footage taken by primatologists and do a lab about it. What was the video of? Oh, you know, chimpanzees…..HUNTING, KILLING, AND EATING MONKEYS.
OH MY GOD I AM SERIOUS DID YOU KNOW THEY DID THIS?! AND IF SO WHY DIDN’T ANYONE WARN ME??! Oh GOD, I am still shook up about it, I am reliving it right now. It was seriously the worst thing I have ever witnessed-when they are hunting there’s this terrible, sickening screaming sound coming from the monkeys and this violent chase through the trees. And once they caught them…well, I won’t tell you how they killed them , because I know I’m traumatized by it, and I wouldn’t want to inflict any of this anguish on you, my friends. Except to say that they grip the monkey’s neck and suffocate it by putting the monkey’s entire head into their mouth, so the body is thrashing about until it finally just dangles there lifeless as the chimp descends the tree. Or sometimes they just, you know, start eating it alive. I don’t even feel bad about telling you that; I had to view it and I will never be the same again. For real. I don’t quote Mr. Henley as often as I should, but this truly was “the end, this is the end of the innocence”. And while we’re on the subject of prolific song lyrics, I always thought “Loser” by Beck was just crazy gibberish, until the first line popped into my head as I watched this massacre: “In the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey.” GOD, Beck, I so get it. NOW I understand. If there are chimpanzees around…YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE A MONKEY YOU GUYS. Plus it was shot on a hand-held camera that was shaking and kept getting dropped like crazy. “Blair Witch Primate”. THE WORST THING EVER.




I’m off to my last class right now, and I am HOPING the weirdness of this day stops now, because really, I’ve paid my dues. We’re doing Dylan in Rock History. Thank the sweet, sweet Lord. Awww, “My Sweet Lord”…George Harrison…Beatles class. Every blog entry comes right back to the Beatles, even if it began with monkeys being eaten and Soledad O’Brien sharing airwaves with a guy’s ass.

Something wicked this way comes...

Ok, so, there have been rumblings about this for a couple of months, but I laughed it off. Then the rumblings got louder and today as I stumbled into good old Ernie Pyle Hall at 9 am with my eyes barely open I saw official confirmation in the form of a neon yellow paper tacked up on the message board, and my day immediately took a turn for the horrific.

BECAUSE:

Ann Coulter is coming to IU.

I'll repeat:
ANN COULTER.
COMING TO IU.

Union Board, what are you trying to do here? This can only end badly. The idea that my tuition money is ending up anywhere near this wench makes me want to die a billion deaths. I don't know a single CONSERVATIVE/REPUBLICAN person who takes her seriously, and right-wingers are not really THAT prominent on this campus, surprising when you consider that we are in the heartland here (oh, clearly the crazy "reverend" who stands outside of Ballentine, identifying the "fornicators" and yelling at female students that he wants to, and this is a direct quote, "impregnate you with the 'rod of God'" is just a delightful little reminder of how cute the religious right is). Look, normally I respect my friends who have different political views, even the super conservative ones; I think in some cases it's possible to put aside political viewpoints and just be friends. HOWEVER, if you like/agree with ANYTHING that this walking advert for White Trash Gone Wild has to say? Kindly click the "x" on the top right corner of the screen and never speak to me again. Anyone who agrees that women shouldn't be allowed to vote and we should kill all the Muslims, and that it's hilarious to perpetuate this disturbing, irresponsible, and dangerous split between the Republicans and Democrats in this country (and it benefits no one-when your elected officials are too busy cutting down the other side to actually pass any legislature that could aid your community and country, no one wins, people- and Coulter thinks it's great) is someone I don't want on my planet, let alone in my life.

Look, I don't know why in the hell we don't take Ann Coulter seriously (all images courtesy of her OFFICIAL website, by the way. Not shocking, as all serious political activists often post pictures of themselves wearing BLACK LEATHER MINIDRESSES) . She has a lot to offer us as a country, besides split ends, a face that only a mother could love (unfortunate for Ann, as she was clearly the spawn of Satan and some crap he found on the bottom of his hoof and decided to copulate with), opinions about different races and religions that would make a KKK member feel hesitant, and views about women so antiquated that in order to find textual evidence for her hate-mongering she has to go so far back that her footnotes reference cave paintings (not surprising, as I often feel the urge to club her over the head and drag her by her hair someplace).

In preparation for what I'm sure will be a successful visit to Bloomington, Indiana, which was recently named one of the most gay-friendly cities in the US, by the way (and, as I think we all know, if there's one thing gay people love, it's those caring, right-wing sweethearts who care so much about the well being of homosexuals that they are kind enough to let them know that they are all going to hell, but while they're here on earth, their relationships don't count, but enjoy the free AIDS that God has provided in exchange for their sins), please join me in recounting some of Coulter's greatest hits (when I put out the CD, I'll include the extended "My Looks, Which Were Typical And Boring At Best, Are Fading, But My Hateful, Ignorant Rhetoric Is Forever" Disco Mix, so don't worry). The following are actual quotes from America's Sweetheart-my commentary, aka The Voice Of Reason, Which Is Crazy Because Compared To Pretty Much Everyone Else I Am Hardly Reasonable, is provided in italics:

"The Republican Party emerged from the Whigs when the Whigs waffled on slavery. (They were "pro-choice" on slavery.) The Republican Party was founded expressly as the anti-slavery party, which to a great extent remains their position today. " (I'll bet every 4th grader can tell you that the Republican Party of Lincoln's time is not the same one of today. It's nice to know that, according to The Beast, most Republicans oppose OWNING OTHER PEOPLE AS PROPERTY, at least, you know, TO A GREAT EXTENT. Shut up, Beast.)

"Or, as I believe our motto should be after 9/11: Jihad monkey talks tough; jihad monkey takes the consequences. Sorry, I realize that's offensive. How about "camel jockey"? What? Now what'd I say? Boy, you tent merchants sure are touchy. Grow up, would you?" (Racial slurs: ruining all arguments that morons have been attempting to make since 1647)

"God gave us the earth. We have dominion over the plants, the animals, the trees. God said, 'Earth is yours. Take it. Rape it. It's yours.'" (Somewhere, God's busy compiling one hell of a libel suit. Tsk, tsk Annie. Don't misquote the almighty. That's straight up J100 stuff.)

To a disabled Vietnam vet: "People like you caused us to lose that war." (Can't argue with this one-all historians agree that the reason we had trouble in Vietnam was because of those sneaky 18 year old boys who infiltrated the army, lived in the jungle, and got their legs blown off. To really stick it to the US. Shut up, Beast.)

"I think [women] should be armed but should not [be allowed to] vote. No, they all have to give up their vote, not just, you know, the lady clapping and me. The problem with women voting -- and your Communists will back me up on this -- is that, you know, women have no capacity to understand how money is earned. They have a lot of ideas on how to spend it. And when they take these polls, it's always more money on education, more money on child care, more money on day care." Hehehehe, what a little darling. It's so true! IF ONLY women and men were BOTH equipped with brains, because, while I do enjoy the empty space in my skull where I can keep my lipstick and back issues of Cosmo, it would be great to know how to, say, balance a budget (teach me George Bush, teach me!) or what those funny faces and numbers on that green paper means. Education IS stupid! Not only should we not spend any more money on it, but it shouldn't be provided to anyone with two X chromosomes! And I don't understand why those damn women folk are always talking about child care. Clearly that's just a woman's issue and doesn't belong in politics. Or at the office-you'd think that the whole not paying women as much as me for doing the same job thing would give them the hint.

"Soon feminists took up the issue of girl-firemen, demanding to know what possible arguments there were, pray tell, for women not to be firemen. (A short list: their inability to pick up the hose, their tendency to cry and panic when confronted with dangerous situations, the effect on families whose homes are on fire when they open the door and see the female equivalent of Michael Dukakis in a tank.) " (Wait...does she know she's a woman? I'm not sure...I guess I'm just confused by this. Somehow I doubt that a woman would choose to become a fire-fighter if FIRES had a tendency to make her cry and panic, but ok. Judging from her wording, I think she rejects the idea because trying to figure out what to call them hurts her simple woman brain. Girl-fireman? Lady policeman? What to do, it's so CONFUSING.)

"Anorexics never have boyfriends. ... That's one way to know you don't have anorexia, if you have a boyfriend." FINALLY, a reason to not have an eating disorder-if you do boys won't like you! Physical suffering and eventual death just wasn't good enough to get the millions of women dealing with this to be cured. The thought of being dateless on a Saturday night? Problem solved! Also, you know what other group of women don't have boyfriends? Hateful, evil bitches.

"I have to say I'm all for public flogging. One type of criminal that a public humiliation might work particularly well with are the juvenile delinquents, a lot of whom consider it a badge of honor to be sent to juvenile detention. And it might not be such a cool thing in the 'hood to be flogged publicly." This one is fun. At first you think she means "flogging" in a figurative sense. But not our Annie! She wants children to be publicly beaten. Ah, that's why she's our national treasure!

"My only regret with Timothy McVeigh is he did not go to the New York Times Building." Really? I guess my only regret is that HE BOMBED OKLAHOMA CITY. But, whatev, different strokes.

"We should invade their countries, kill their leaders and convert them to Christianity. We weren't punctilious about locating and punishing only Hitler and his top officers. We carpet-bombed German cities; we killed civilians. That's war. And this is war." Because Christianity has always been known as a peace-loving religion, as opposed to Islam. I don't even have the energy to fight it out. All I'll says is blah blah blah Crusades blah blah blah Spanish Inquisition blah blah blah it's always nice to condone killing civilians blah blah blah.

"Press passes can't be that hard to come by if the White House allows that old Arab Helen Thomas to sit within yards of the President." It's just offensive that His Holy Honor The President has to be in the same room as minorities at all. Can you blame him for taking so long to get to New Orleans?

Americans don't want to make Islamic fanatics love us. We want to make them die. There's nothing like horrendous physical pain to quell anger. Japanese Kamikazes pilots hated us once, too. A couple of well-aimed nuclear weapons got their attention. Now they are gentle little lambs." I have ALWAYS been an advocate for using nuclear weapons to get children to behave, so clearly I see her point here. I also think that germ warfare is our best bet in dealing with road rage. Make all those angry drivers gentle little lambs. Gentle little lambs with smallpox.

"Kwanzaa itself is a lunatic blend of schmaltzy '60s rhetoric, black racism and Marxism. Indeed, the seven 'principles'of Kwanzaa praise collectivism in every possible arena of life – economics, work, personality, even litter removal." I'm confused about how Kwanzaa has ANY kind of effect on her, a white, Catholic woman.

So, I don't know what else to say, other than the fact that she just plain sucks. I'm not sure whether I should go see her spew her bile all over the IU Auditorium. On one hand, I'd love to see her ripped apart. On another, I can get PLENTY of her idiocy from the comfort of my own home. I'll leave you with one final gem:

"I love to engage in repartee with people stupider than I am." Oh, I hate to pick apart grammar, but there is just a blaring mistake in this sentence; you're missing the "would", sweetie. They way it is right now suggests that people that are "stupider" than you are currently exist. And that's just not the case.

Apparently, I was the one who wasn't Y2K compatible.

I broke my computer. The hard drive just plain DIED; one minute everything was totally copasetic and I left it in my room. Came back and it had some crazy ass message on the screen. Long story short, some guy named Andrew from hp who kind of sounded Indian until he said my name, and then he was a total Frenchman (“Jean-ee-fair”) and who seemed totally inappropriate when he was telling me to keep pressing the F8 key over and over again as I was re-booting (“keep doing it, keep doing it, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!”) is sending me a replacement hard drive. THAT I HAVE TO INSTALL BY MYSELF. I don’t even own a screwdriver- I have to literally go purchase one for this arduous task.

So I’m losing everything on my hard drive. All of this drama went down at around 11 pm, as I was gearing up to study for the TWO SCIENCE EXAMS THAT I HAD TODAY and lasted until about 2 am. Oh yeah, I was TOTALLY prepared for my tests. So at 2 am I decide to take a shower and wash my hair. Because when life gets way too hard, you should always deep-condition, that’s what I like to say. So as I am exfoliating my face a little too violently, I start thinking about what I will lose. And basically, all of my pictures from august until now are history. Everything that I wrote is gone (stuff for my literary journalism class got sent out to the entire class, so I have copies in e-mails at least. And my music? Gone. But, oh, don’t worry! I said to myself. You bought that program that gets the music off your iPod and onto the computer! All is not lost! And then I remembered that the last time I updated my iPod, I got tired of picking and choosing which of the 2899 songs on my computer to put on the iPod that only holds appx. 1075, so I JUST PUT ON THE PLAYLIST WITH MY MUSIC FOR MY ROCK HISTORY CLASS AND ONE OTHER PLAYLIST WITH ABOUT 20 OTHER SONGS. Everything else is gone.

But I still didn’t completely lose it because I figured that at least I had the music I really loved and needed to listen to for class. At least I have The Beatles! Except… I TOTALLY DON’T. I have about 4 songs. Out of hundreds. Oh, but not to worry! I have the CD’s here, right? Right?!?!?!

NO. NO I DO NOT. I HAVE THE WHITE ALBUM PRAISE GOD AND SOME OTHERS BUT NO REVOLVER!! No Sgt. Pepper, you guys. No George Harrison solo albums. All of these I brilliantly left home in an attempt to “pack lightly” when I came back from break (yet I packed 4 different jackets. WHAT AM I DOING IN LIFE.) because I figured they were on my computer and iPod so everything is cool. I want to just cry a million tears. I can’t go for more than 2 days without listening to “And Your Bird Can Sing” or “Doctor Robert”. I am physically incapable.

I don’t know what to do with this. Besides the glaringly obvious fact that there isn’t a chance in hell that I will be able to assemble a hard drive once it does get here, how am I expected to live without my laptop for over a week? I AM ALL ALONE HERE TO BEGIN WITH, AT LEAST BEFORE I HAD THE INTERNET TO KEEP ME COMPANY. No 4 am instant messages (with pictures! To show FEELINGS!) with Dan. Where am I supposed to look when I need to diagnose a disease? I have a huge project due on Anderson Cooper on Tuesday. I will have to spend my weekend at the Union using one of their computers because I am like a little orphan, with no technology of my own.

This might literally be the worst thing ever to happen to human beings.


DISCLAIMER: I keep trying to re-read this to see if I even formulated complete sentences, but I totally can't, as I am distracted by both the fact that I got a whopping 1.5 hours of sleep last night, AND by the fact that the rain has caused my hair to completely morph textures-it pretty much looks I have a perm right now, not kidding, tis BAD NEWS, AND the fact that I can't believe that I actually remembered Koch's postulates regarding vaccination/the 4 diseases caused by herpes/anything really for my Plagues and Viruses test this morning. AND I'm confused by the guy sitting across from me in the computer lab who looks and is dressed exactly like the guy from "Fast Times At Ridgemont High" how gets Jennifer Jason Leigh pregnant-you know, the one who scalps the tickets? So don't judge me based on this entry, please. In fact, don't judge me at all-think about how I apparently have the power to break electronic devices using just my MIND.