she's a brick house.

Job security is a fading memory.

No, I am not still bitter about my boundless opportunities for cash flow this summer. Please. I am an adult. I am talking big picture, people. That's right. Post graduation. I mean, my plans of making my college career last more than four years are swirling down the drain so I am now putting on my big girl panties and facing reality. What up, reality? My name is Stephanie and I am about to rock your world.

First Year College came and went. With it came love, liberty and a lot of learning. Haha, right. My adviser, Ziga, was awesome (and may or may not have been deemed BFF material), but she was no miracle worker. You know those pivotal life experiences that you look back on and dedicate the success you are, current day, to that one really incredible point in your life? Yea, FYC isn't that for me. Sorry, Zigs. You tried. Buy yourself a cookie. It's on Ed.

Although starting out in an undecided major gave me a lot of awesome opportunities to take classes that don't exactly count towards any legitimate graduate degree, it also steered me in the direction of some sort of practical destination. My dad refers to this destination as my major. Hiya.

It appears that my specific concentration in Communications is the retarded little sister to what the College of Management has to offer, but hey. I will happily write a paper about my feelings or some man named William before I voluntarily worry myself with numbers, strategies, thinking and really torturous things of the sort. You may call these a skill set for a real job. I, however, call them reasons to cry.

So let's throw out any and all ambitions of summer oh ten. Who needs 'em? Allow me to take the next few months of couch filled days to plan out my future. I figure if I work out all of the logistics now, the only task on my To-Do list come May 2011 will be finding some random spot on my graduation apparel to monogram. Oh, and maybe making a friend or two in CHASS that I can sit with on the big day. I realized last week that the big guy in Grains of Time with the deep voice and intense vocabulary just wasn't going to cut it. Apparently he has his own friends. Who knew? I should probably formulate some type of contract for this. Not that I question a person's word or my friend making abilities, but I mean. You can never be too careful.

A lot of my friends entered the college realm with the expectation of meeting their future husband in the first week and kind of coasting on the waves of his engineering degree from that point on. I mean, that's cool. I would so be up for that, but here's the thing. I am pretty sure I would be the world's worst stay at home mother... like ever. First up, I don't clean. Yea, sorry. Josephine just set a standard that I could never uphold and it isn't fair to her or anyone else in her line of work for me to even try to compete. Second, I have the tendency to do absolutely nothing. You know those cute moms that stay active and motivated as they cook and care for their children? Yea, that's definitely not me. I'll look cute, but it is probably going to take all day for me to reach that level of presentability. How do you expect me to unload the dishwasher and fold laundry if I am busy getting ready for dinner? Yes, dinner. Don't tell me you expected me to cook too? Please. I am an incredible person, but I am not superhuman.

Granted, my kids are going to be the most attractive kids in the neighborhood with their monogrammed wrist-embedded computer chips and perfectly symmetrical faces, but that's where my job ends. What does Stephanie bring to the table, you ask? Heterochromia iridium. That's right, I'll make them unique. My extremities are E.T. prototypes, so I'll just give them my eyes. A kind soul, I am.

Making beautiful people takes a lot out of a person. I'll get Helga or somebody to show my children that love and compassion stuff. Mommy's tired.

So, reality. Apparently I should stay on that whole get a job path. You all thought I was headed towards instant wife duty, but no. Opportunity squandered. Let's drink to that, shall we? (Everyone collect your tabs, please. Derby Days 2011 is in our midst and I'd hate to let my quest for success stunt our chapter's ranking. Anything to help those things in life that are truly important.)

Where was I?

Oh, right. Future. Hi. Good to hear from you again! Well, not really. I mean, you're adorable and all. You've got optimism and boundless opportunities, but to be to frank. You are kind of scary. I love your constant reminders of things I should be doing and simply adore that really awesome feeling you're giving me in the pit of my stomach. You know what feeling I'm talking about. The constant need to hurl? Yea, that's the one. It's incredible, but I've got a proposition for you. Let's make a little compromise. Not that I question your motivation for and/or desire of torturing me because I totally get that. I'm just really afraid of how the consequences of your actions are going to affect everyone else.

Let's think this through. If you don't slow your roll, I am probably going to have a meltdown. No bueno. When Stephanie has meltdowns, she rebels. Typically this entails ordering a salad from Moe's rather than a Joey Jr. or wearing the provocative 3" chinos opposed to the modest 5", but the stakes are rising, my friend. At this rate, you are going to drive me into the arms of some pathetic gang banger. Do you really want to do that to society? I can't make cute kids in the ghetto! A monogram isn't a monogram if it is tattooed on a brother's tricep. Sorry, dawg. It just isn't the same. My husband will be hot, not shot. Also, I would rather my kid be known as "Brace-face" than "the kid with the mace." Just stating the facts.

Actually. You know what, Future? Go away. You heard me! I love my life right now. I want my summer of 2010! Graduation seating arrangements can wait. Stop messing with my mind. You keep invading my plans and expectations... and locations! What up with that? Like I said, you're cute, but I'm not interested. I know you love me and want to spend eternity with me, but I am putting my foot down. My very large foot, so needless to say it means business. That's right. Find someone that lives in your own zip code who will be rocked to the core by your deep conversation and model looks. I claim both Raleigh and Shelby. Oh, and Weimar too. I like it there, don't mess it up.

Back to the grind. Anyone need a babysitter? Clearly from my anticipated mothering abilities, I personify everything you could want in a child caregiver.

As for (some of) you other people. My resume is burning a whole in your email account! It is crucial to my well-being that you hop on that. I am simply trying to make this relationship work. My summer is up to you and me, sweetheart. Calling when you say you are going to call is the very first brick in this house we are building of love and trust. If you can't lay down this one stupid brick, we ain't ever going to have a house! ...and baby, it's cold outside.

Actually it's extremely hot, but I'm wearing Prada and Josephine is terrible at getting out sweat stains. The door is locked and I've been drinking. Helga took the kids to the pool and has the only spare key with her. What a bitch move, Helgs. Remind me to get someone to translate "You're fired," later.

antiquing.

If you are old and are enrolled in college classes, that is fine. I support your determination of bettering the lives of your handicap dog, illiterate son and/or decrepit wife that made your college diploma her dying wish. Really though, props. I commend your continual efforts and willingness to do nothing else but study for this class and up your participation points, but please. Do me a favor. Lay off. I thought sitting in class behind you was bad enough, but never did I consider the ramifications of signing up for an online class with your crumbling bones and deteriorating prostate..

Participation grades are distributed by comparing a student's feedback to that of everyone else in the class. Your novel size submissions are ruining the curve, old man. My family gives canes and sweater vests to our aged loved ones. I don't know who decided a computer was a suitable Christmas gift for you, but whoever they are, I hope a tragic need for a suppository is in their midst.

I don't care if nonverbal communication is your new passion in life. From my observations of you over the course of this semester, clearly this is the case. Ever thought of a hobby? You know, like pedophilia or stamp collecting? There are a lot of cool destinations in Raleigh to take up both of these great things. If you don't like stamps, try hunting for lamps or some other useless trash-to-treasure that serves no purpose but creating a new home for dust bunnies. Why? Because right now the only antique collecting dust is you on your dial-up internet updating your damn Vista posts.

I do not care that you have all of these really great examples of the topic at hand since you have been alive for such a long freaking time. I'm sure a lot of cool shit happened to my grandparents too, but that doesn't mean they send out a press release every time they happen to remember something so they can share how it impacted them. No one cares about the time you used body language to deter a bar squabble. By bar, we know you mean strip club. By squabble, we know you mean a fight that was instigated by you asking for special favors from a dancer that turned out to be one of your granddaughter's best friends. Just because you used the word squabble doesn't change the fact no one cares.

I do not care that you just learned about that cool "new Google feature" and all the information you can find just by typing things into the little white box. One, it's called a search engine. Two, go eat your prunes. Yes, online books exist, but no one cares what the author of the book had to say about kinesics. If we did, we probably would have read it in the first place. Stop quoting the chapter for paragraphs at a freaking time. We all have copy and paste capabilities too, dawg. That doesn't mean we use them. Can someone please tell your bedside nurse to trade in that keyboard and mouse for a bedpan? Thanks.

I am really sorry about whatever war, job opportunity or bastard child that stifled your initial plans of going to college when everyone else your age did, but please. Stop caring about this class so much. For real. Consider this my card of sympathy that sings you a really obnoxious song and has a picture of Troy and Gabriella on the front. Shoo, I'll even throw in some stickers. Look at that, there is even a slot for money! I know, best card ever. You're welcome.

Now turn off your computer and take your medication. The rest of us have a GPA to maintain.