Holla!

Century kids...

Who's going back for homecomming?

That's all. Sorry.

Oh, except for the fights that happen on the bathroom stalls here on the estrogen floor of Solberg hall. We have these white boards taped to the sides of the stalls so we can write silly (stupid) messages (witless nonsensical bable that only sounds funny in our heads and always end with "JK," "lol" and little smiley faces to make it look cute) and answer fun (annoying) questions like, "what is the cutest thing a boy has ever said to you?" I want to know who, in respose to the question "What is the coolest vacation you've ever taken?" wrote, "To the moon!," then followed it up with "(jk, I've never been to the moon!!!)" Um, really? Boy, she had me going there for a sec. Thank goodness someone invented "jk." Otherwise there would be nothing to signal to me the fact that there are no real live astronauts living in Solberg's South wing. How did we communicate before instant messenger?

Anyway, my favorite stall is the one that not a lot of people use because the lock sticks. The white board hasn't been cleaned in a while and there's a fight on it between people who drink and party and people who don't. It starts with, "Why do people feel like they need to drink to be cool?" and ends with, "Why you gotta be like that, bitch?" I wish you could all be here to witness the fantasticness.

So, yeah. Homecomming?

P.S.

Yesterday, I saw the best "Sweet Sixteen" preview on MTV ever. My favorite part was when the music got all scary and the girl screamed, "I don't WANT ugly people!"

I, along with the rest of America's ugly people, will be watching intently.

My diary, my only friend.

Dear diary,

My life is over. Today in Western Civ., I fell off of a desk in front of all the cool kids. I don't kow how it happened. One minute, I was perched nonchalontly atop my desk discussing the philosophies of socrates and Plato. The next, I was doing a sort of dive and roll thing like you're supposed to do when you get thrown off a horse. I then landed on my head and everybody laughed. If they'd seen as many Hilary Duff movies as I have, they probably would have started clapping like people do in those cafeteria scenes where Hilary drops her tray or gets food thrown at her or something. Man, I bet Hilary knows just how I feel. Judging by her role choices, She seems like the kind of girl who's always on the outside looking in. Just like me.

Oh diary, I wish something had been hurt other than my pride. Then, I'd be that girl who ended up in a coma due to a horrific desk massacre. People would send me flowers and organize prayer circles. Instead, I'm just the dork who fell off a desk. Now, I'll never get asked to the mixer.

I may as well be dead.

ho hum

If you look closely, you can almost read the procrastination between the lines.

Really, I have nothing to say, but I knew I could either do this, write my history paper due tomorrow, send a perfume soaked letter confessing my love to Tom Welling, or gouge my own eyes out with a mechanical pencil. Obviously, after surveying my options, I chose blogging. But I'll give bonus points to annyone who can guess which one came in second.

As I stare at this computer screen and realize the wit mechanism in my head didn't wake up with me, (I think it went out and got wasted last night...) my inferiority complex is starting to kick in. So, I'll return to my history before this post becomes one of those tear stained middle school journal entries where I whine about how, "Jeez, nobody gets me," and, "Jeez, he doesn't even know I'm alive," and, "Jeez, If I ran this school, no one would ever have to play 'no strikes baseball' again and everyone would wear stirrup pants and..."

But, I digress. Middle school has left my soul bitter and contorted. I guess I'll let you know how that history paper goes.

By the way, I really miss you guys. If annyone's interested in playing a game of "Who knows the most about witchcraft in the fifteenth century," Give me a call. It might help with my inferiority complex.

Party on, NSS

I totally just finished a paper about a book with no textual references! I also refered to myself in first person! Numerous times! Oh man, who needs to drink their tuition away? My wild and crazy self is half-assing things while I'm completely sober! Woo! Everybody, raise a glass of milk to New Student Seminars and taking them pass-fail.

You know, some people collect jokes off of Laughy-Taffy wrappers. At Augustana, administrators get their kicks out of assigning "values essays" based on Chaim Potok's The Chosen, and finding different ways to convince people someone reads them. They give bonus points and candy to any teacher who can convince a student than someone actually cares. So far, no one's scored on me.

That may have come out wrong...

I thought I might look for a job on campus because I wasn't awarded work study. Turns out, I'm not that desperate.

My first option was to join "calling crew." The situation was explained to me in an e-mail with lots of spelling errors and exclamation points! With "calling crew," I would have the opportunity to call alumni and ask them for money. It didn't sound like a very good job for a person with limited social skills and low self esteem. I decided to look for a job that involved something other than me being rejected over and over again.

Then, I saw a sign on a wall advertising openings for "Red Bull representatives." There was a long list of criteria of which I met none. Call me crazy, but I think that if you have a "passion for Red Bull and want to share it with others," you may want to re-evaluate your life goals and values. No offense, Red Bull spokespeople of the world, I just don't get you. Perhaps no one ever will.

Finally, I checked the career center website for community job listings off campus within walking distance. My only options were ghetto Hy-Vee and a terrifying call for workers in a "pharmeceutical plant." Qualifications included sharp vision, the ability to read fine, colored print for log periods of time and the ability to lift fifty pounds. I didn't check, but the workers are probably paid with suckers, gum, hookers and/or kibble, depending on age, gender and species.

In conclusion, extra cash is overrated.

Hola. Me Llamo Adolph...

I caved. I'm in college and it seems that many people who go to college obtain blogs. So I did. I figured it was a nice alternative to the things college kids usually obtain like drug addictions, alcoholism and sexually transmitted diseases. If I ever have a deep thought, I may post it here, but it hasn't happened yet. Until that day comes, I'll just talk about college and the things that make me nervous. Namely everything. That way, it will feel like I'm complaining to someone, but no one has to listen. Plus, blogs seem like a nice way to keep up with friends once they've died. I mean, gone to college. (We love you Larry! I know you're smiling down on us from... um...med. school...)

Anyway, college so far is a blast. But only if your understanding of "Blast" involves terror, never knowing the right thing to say, and a constant social headache. Mine does. At least the camp feeling is starting to wear off here at Augustana. I'm feeling better than I was a week ago and hope to continue this pattern. I met a boy, (a theatrical design major), who taught me the rule of ten: For every twenty girls at Augie, there are ten boys. Of that ten, five of them are taken, one's an ass, one's just creepy, and two of them are gay. That leaves one boy for every twenty girls. Boy, I better sharpen those sexy wiles of mine! I'm 18 and I think I may already be an old maid.

Oh, hey! this has nothing to do with anything but what is a blog for if not random thoughts...
I'm taking a spainish class. (I don't know why, since the only thing I've retained from my middle school spainish experience is a snazzy rap naming all the capitals of South America.) and I've decided that whenever I have to make up names for people in a "create your own conversation," those names will be Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin. Therefore the conversations will go something like:

Hola! Me Llamo Adolph Hitler! Y tu?

Mucho Gusto, Adolph. Me Llamo Jose Stalin. De donde eres?

El gusto es mio. Yo soy de Nazi Germany. Y tu?

And so on. Well, I thought it was entertaining.