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.

politix.

Dear Professor,

Yes, Russell Wilson is in the class. Yes, he is sitting front row and seems really attentive, but please. Stop using football metaphors. We are not PRT majors, nor do we care. This isn't fun. Implicit? Understatement of the year. Your message of political conspiracies does not correlate no matter how hard you try. No humor remains. Russell is capable of comprehending other analogies and comparisons of the sort. He is not going to get you a free t-shirt. Stop trying to sell his handwritten assignments to your colleagues. If you really want to connect with your students that badly, try paralleling the well-integrated political schizoid to that of Chuck Bass and his momma drama. People will care, I promise.

In reference to my most recent investigation report analysis, yes. I know my textual construction is weak, but so is the Obama Administration. I'm just trying to keep up. What it do, 'merica? The thesis of my paper was stronger than the vod in your mug and you know it. I am tired of SNCC. My social movement is more outdated than your mustache and I honestly just do not care anymore. You think everything that I say is intended for sarcasm, but in actuality I am just trying to disguise how indifferent I am towards everything being discussed.

Let people think what they want to think. If it happened thirty years ago and the movement leader is already dead, what exactly are the twelve of us going to resolve by debating their intentions? They intended for people to die. People died. The end.

Ps, your pun about intimidation versus intimination today was actually clever. Touchdown. Keep it up, bigs.

Please stop calling me Steph,
Stephanie.

black sheep, white socks.

So a lot of people don't like their families. I mean, that's cool. Here's the thing though, I do.

Let's be real. Bonnie may just be the most hypocritical car passenger the highway has ever seen, but I still love her. You don't want me to sleep when you drive, but it is ok when you sleep as I drive. That makes sense, totally. You can mess with the radio, drive with your knee, send emails and eat as you drive, but rue the day that I try to do the same. Hey big sis, I'm just trying to be like you. That's all it is. If you don't like my music, next time bring your own. Your head hurts? Oh, I'm sorry. You are hungry? Oh, I'm sorry. I am going too fast? Oh, I'm sorry. I am going too slow? Oh, I'm sorry. I'm talking too much? Oh, I'm sorry. My music is too loud? Oh, I'm sorry. Please, Bonnie. What can I do to make this trip the best car ride you have ever experienced in your entire life? I'm just trying to drive 80 miles per hour in traffic so we can get home. Don't mind me.

Ok, so I like my family. The Bonnie rant wasn't intended, but as it turns out I am still bitter. I know. Shocked me too. Back to my initial remark. I love my family.

My parents are hysterical. My dad has been telling the same jokes since my soccer practices in the second grade. A bit dated, they are, but occasionally punny nonetheless. My mom doesn't have jokes. That's what I love about her. Teaching high school students day in and day out, this woman is seasoned in all things people watching. I thought people watching was fun at food courts and funerals, but think of the unfortunate teenagers fussing over bathroom breaks and prom dates that she gets to observe every single day. Jack pot. That material is money right there. My point? I get it from the best. I do not judge. I observe and critique.

Ok, so maybe I judge just a little.

Woops.

You may think that I am a judgmental person. If you think that then you probably know me very well. However, you also know that I am a nice person. Unless someone worth judging gets in my way or provokes me, I typically let their heinous display of whatever they are doing slide with a shrewd face and side comment. You can call me compassionate. It's ok. A lot of people do.

Bonnie and I drive home and meet our parents for dinner at the Olive Garden. You know, the Olive Garden. Not the Cheesecake Factory where people occasionally choose to dress up and rendezvous. Not a country club where certain attire is implied. Not an upscale restaurant with a dress code that serves portions intended for infants that haven't worked their way up to solid foods yet, but the Olive Garden. Excuse me for not putting on my deb dress to eat a breadstick.

First off, I did not get the memo that we were in the midst of prom season. Sorry for not caring. I get out of the car and comments from my parents ignite. Yes, I am really wearing this. Hey, at least I color coordinate. Credit when it's due, please. No, I didn't know we were meeting for dinner when I got dressed two days ago. Yes, I slept in this last night... and maybe the night before. No, I don't have a change of clothes. Yes, I probably have an odor. Geez. It is really nice to see you guys too. Hugs and kisses.

Work with me here. My outfit is not that atrocious. I am wearing a navy shirt, light blue shorts, navy sneaks and white socks. Yes, they are high socks, but since when is that a crime? I am wearing pearls, so can't we just call it even? Again, dear family. We are at the Olive Garden. Ugh, yes. Fine. I will brush my hair before we go in. Just for you, Momma. Just for you.

We walk to the door and the side glances begin. From the parental perspective, I get where the conviction is coming from. I'm in public at a restaurant other than Wendy's and I am wearing high socks. I mean, my parents judged me. Why not let every other parent in Gaston County do the same? No big. But you. You? Really. You are going to judge me too? Honey, please. Did you even look in the mirror after the free samples at Merle Norman threw up on you? And yes, Bedazzled may have had a huge liquidation of all dresses that make innocent eyes bleed, but think about it. They were on sale for a reason.

I know you think you look really adorable in your pink and black sequined dress that drags the ground when you attempt to walk in your clear plastic pumps, but please. Don't judge me. You must understand you are in no shape or form to give me the look that I should be throwing right back at you. There are enough sequins sewn onto your dress to cover the shores of Tripoli and please trust me when I say, you and I are now at war. Yes, my hair looks like a small child with downs just finished playing in it, but you? You are wearing a tiara. A tiara. My entire outfit may look like I am a lovechild of Duke and Carolina, but you sweetheart, appear to be the spawn of Ralphie May and Avril Lavigne. That is just inhumane. Who wins the battle of eligibility to eat in this restaurant? You guessed it, babe. Me.

As for your friend? Dang. Between the two of you, sequin factories are making BANK. I like shiny objects, but let's be sensible. From a girl that loves her fair share of sequined apparel, let me help you out. Ladies, we should not be able to stop traffic. Our waiter should not have to wear sunglasses. People at the next table should not have to feel bad about their comments about us. Our dates should not FEAR US if we were to accidentally bump into them. This is not normal. We do not look good.

Now that we've gotten that sorted out. Why am I dressed the way I am while you are pimped out in your going out gear and formal duds? Basically I am a caustic party monster who has exponentially more fun than everyone else. Duh. You need booze and fake bling in your date's ear to start the night off right. I, on the other hand, need high socks and sweet kicks. Ps, I heard you. Yes, I may look ridiculous. However you look exactly like a confused adolescent blemish on the forehead of humanity. Pop that.

Next up, the two gentlemen sitting in front of you. You may call them dates, however I will be referring to them as rude. Avril May, your date is all hot and bothered that he can't order the lunch portion of the spaghetti. Problem number one, he is ordering spaghetti. Problem number two, I am pretty sure homeboy has never ordered the lunch portion of anything in his entire 16 years of existence. That's right. Your main man here is the type of guy I have nightmares (slash sexual fantasies) about. An overweight high school nose guard who steals cookies from the cafeteria, undermines the naive custodial workers who think his athletic career is actually going places (other than Bojangles), honestly believes he is the only one of his friends to fully understand the non-sequential humor of Family Guy and is not afraid to freestyle rap at any time despite the secondhand embarrassment it may cause the people around him. Yep. He just word vommed a "fo shizzle" in casual conversation and no one made fun of him. Where do you kids go to school, again? Remind me to burn it to the ground.

As for the lady two tables over. Yes, I am more attractive than your lesbian friend sitting in front of you, but please stop the staring. Geez. Perhaps you heard my remark to my mother about your aerated face. If that is the case, I am deeply sorry. You must understand though, I am a professional. I read people. It's what I do. Don't believe me? Try this on for size:

Overdone facial piercings are for people who have accepted on more than one level that they are painful to look at. Crimped hair is for white women who wish they were ethnic. Bell bottoms are for people who think their lives would be better if they'd been born in the past. Purple, of course, is the royal color of the sexually frustrated. Basically you are one giant billboard of your own self-loathing. Nice.

Ok, I'm hungry.

As I spin my pasta in my shock induced trance, I reexamine the relatively new physical evidence that bad ideas still exist. Bad ideas meaning people, of course. I snap back to reality. The table topic has turned to networking. Goody.

My parents are fairly apprehensive towards public knowledge of personal information. Due to some of the things that I say being somewhat inappropriate, I realize they have my best interest in mind. Although their warnings and cautionary tales are told to both daughters, we all know that they are targeted at me. Why, you ask? Well it seems as if somehow a good number of my Facebook comments make their way back to the home front. How, you ask? What a good question. Don't you think so, Bonnie? Yea. Me too.

Anyway, so Bonnie goes on about how she has a Twitter account, but not to worry because it is completely legitimate. No, it isn't scary that people can read what you post all day everyday. No, it isn't pretentious that you assume everyone genuinely cares what you have to say all day everyday. It is actually an impeccable networking tool. Not only can you quote scripture and publicly encourage your friends to vote and do community service, but you can also check the weather! Yes, the weather. Another great opportunity within this realm of technology is that of improvement in leadership and advancement in education. (Surprised I was actually listening, eh?) By following certain accounts you can keep up with all things happy and wholesome. You can even follow the local news station so you know what is going on both in the community and in legislation. Oh my! All of the great things!

After the golden child finishes, our parents are so intrigued. Now that they've heard about all of the beautiful life experiences that Twitter has provided her with, I feel eyes on me for continuance. Uhhh... is it my turn? No thanks. I keep my eyes on the prize. Marinara sauce, that is. I can only imagine how that conversation would have gone. Hey Stephanie, what do you do? Oh, I blog about really unattractive people and racial slurs. No big deal.

Favorite Daughter Award goes to... Bodacious Bon.

It was a close one. Good game.

Note to world: Please do not prom it up at your local OG. The free thin mints are not worth it. Promise.

i wear my tennis shoes at night.

As the sun fades into the distance and the moon begins to beam,
Old people play bridge at K&W and babies start to dream.
As the magical white luster rises up and consumes the sky,
Sketchy men come out, crime ensues and innocent people die.
In cute little neighborhoods, families join hands as dinner is prepared.
Dishes are cleared, kids are tucked in and Law & Order: SVU is aired.

Coffee makers are unplugged and doors are locked by those preparing for slumber.
My mouth agape, I gaze into the night. My plans for the evening are unencumbered.

Streets and 'hoods and cities and towns;
They all turn black and life shuts down.

There are no lights. The darkness bites.
I'd make this a rap, but I am white.

A cricket weeps.
A lurker creeps.

Flipped pillows and mouth hugs. Cozy fun is had all around.
Other than murderous screams from afar, there is no sound.
Just as REM ignites and natural clocks await the sun,
I judge those that sleep. I am better than you. Why? I run.

Poetic enough? Ok, cool.

For those of you who have expressed concern about my late night drollery, please let me explain. It is fun. Yes, it is slightly unsafe. Yes, it is a smidge creepy every now and again. Yes, bad things have happened to other people in similar scenarios. However, the same ramifications are fitting to other things in life as well. Marriage, babysitting, shopping at Wal-Mart and sorority date functions to name a few. I will give up all of the above, just let a girl run.

I know what you're thinking. Cut the butter, Benedict Arnold. Yes, Momma. Morgan runs with me. No, Bonnie. She did not run with me to your apartment. Yes, I know. Valid point. No, I shouldn't have. However, I done did it. No turning back now. Let's move on.

Let me lay it out for you.
Shall we set the mood?


Why:

• I don't like to be watched. One of you may not have grasped this concept yet, but let me reiterate. I do not like to be watched. Sure, watch me while I live day in and day out. Watch me eat. Watch me walk. Watch me judge someone else, no big. All of these I have come accustomed to because so many people admire me and wish they could be a part of my life. That's fine. But, please. Do not watch me run. Why? Uhm, well one. It's weird. Two, it is painful. Three, I am pretty sure watching a blind man with no toes try to successfully jump off of a diving board would be less disheartening. Yea, it's that bad. Basically, dark sky and heavy clouds disguise the blatant atrocity that I like to call running in public. Well, we can pretend.
  

Benefits:

• Not only is the temperature more bearable, but as previously noted - the evening serves as somewhat of a judgment free zone. I am clumsy. I stumble. If that were to happen in the middle of the day, I would play it off as either an intentional leap or a fun little skip. Effort is needed and pride is at stake. No thanks. However, if the same thing were to happen at night, I could just glare at the crack dealer that saw me trip, judge him for all that he is and continue on. No harm, no foul.
  
• The darkness covers up a multitude of other transgressions as well. As some of you learned in yea, i like dat., I have no will power when it comes to droppin' hot beatz. Music is satanic. By satanic I mean damn good, of course. If I like a song, my body knows it. I don't care if I am in the middle of the road. Hands go up. Fingers point to the left and right. Shoulders lean, no big deal. Although I enjoy myself, I promise you. No one wants to see that. Thank you, dark sky. I still have friends because you exist.

New Friends Made:

• Monday through Thursday, from around 10pm to 12am, there is a posse of boymen that congregate outside of Subway. From what I have observed, this two hour span serves as somewhat of a break for these hard working gentlemen. The first time I noticed them I assumed they were UT outcasts that weren't invited to the floor foam party or had grown tired of the wrap station available to them. However after repeated observation and careful inspection (or perhaps just looking at the logo on their matching shirts), I have obtained quite the insight. Three of the handsome lads are sub sandwich architects that probably specialize in slipping free cookies to average looking college girls and toasting my bread for 10 seconds too long, but as for the rest, I am still unsure. There are two more cuties that may or may not work at PizzAmerica. One props himself against the brick wall and never fails to have at least two empty plates in front of him. (Where da big boyz at?) He was wearing a PizzAmerica visor for an entire week once, but hasn't sported any headgear since. Now that you are invested, I will be sure to continue on with my investigation and keep you posted on his employment status. You're welcome.

Lessons Learned:

• Don't dance when you're running with Morgan. She will scold you and sprint in the other direction.
• When there is a chance of a monsoon, stay inside. Changing socks six times isn't worth it. Promise.
• Avoid couples in the rose garden post 9pm. I guarantee you, they are not picking flowers. Yes, they may be on the amphitheater stage, but no. Their play is not for public viewing. Running stairs can wait. These kids are freaks.
• Make a playlist. Don't trust shuffle. Legitimately every other song will be Frank Sinatra and that is just depressing.
• Don't smile at the lady standing near Enterprise. Don't ask how she is doing. She thinks your name is Miranda. She offers you refreshments. Bitch is crazy.
• Do not acknowledge the large group posted up on the corner when they cheer for you as you pass by. They will continue to clap and cheer every time you pass them after that. It eventually gets awkward.
• Know where your friends and acquaintances live. You can make a fool of yourself if you don't know the people watching you. However, if you (unknowingly) pass by an apartment where a friend resides whilst hardcore skipping, bumpin' and 2-steppin' and hear your name being called from the balcony, that is not ok. It is not dark enough. Note the address and avoid them for six days.
• When you are jogging down a populated street and people are on their porches, turn off your music. I guarantee whatever they're going to say about you as you pass by is a lot more interesting than whatever Guster has going on.
• Do not make eye contact with dogs. They will bark at you. They will run after you. They will be a lot faster than you. You will die.
• Avoid the gray dog behind the wire fence. He hates you.
• Switch up your routes. People will start to think you are stalking them. Especially if for four nights straight you watch the same woman walk her same dog to the same tree for the same amount of time. Her name is Cindy. Her dog's name is Harley. It is an oak tree. 2 minutes and 42 seconds.
• Switch up your routes. You will start to realize that you are a stalker.
• Do not befriend the people standing outside of REX Hospital. They like your socks and that is fine. Accept the compliment and get the hell out.
• Do not let the Safety Escort take you home. Stay strong. If you cave, you are weak. Don't be a cowardice woman. He is a man. He thinks you are inferior. He doesn't really want to help you, he just wants to prove his power in society. Ballz it up and keep running. You've got this.
• Anticipate how long you will be gone. Use the restroom before you leave. No matter how harmless and potty desperate you look, the man mopping down Whole Foods will not let you in.
• If you are sketched out by someone nearby, do not fear. Whip out your phone and have a nice faux conversation with your law enforcement father about how you have a rape whistle, pepper spray and a handgun on you at all times. Remind him that you have people expecting you in the next five minutes and they will come looking for you if you are not back very soon.
• To ensure that no one is following behind you, spin. That's right. I said spin. Intense jog aside, kick up your right heel and perform a swift swivel to check out any potential company lurking behind. This sweet move proves to be both effective and entertaining. You will look like a skilled dancer. People will love you.

do you like cheese?

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what comes before part b?

Part A, duh.

I love college.

Lessons learned.
Actions observed.
People judged.

Oh, just another day in the life.

• You don’t have to be rich and famous to party like Lindsay Lohan or Flavor Flav. You just need coolers of vodka, no inhibitions and black lights.

• Strippers are great when you're in some dark, age-restricted place in a sketch part of town with a bag of terrible cocaine and a pile of secrets, but when you take them out of context and over to the nearest fraternity throw down, it is just uncomfortable for everyone.

• Man, is it a relief to finally find a college man showing a touch of refinement instead of slutting it up all over the place. There's something about that rare gentleman sporting calf length board shorts, no shirt and promiscuous highlighter drawn body art walking through an indoor party full of normalcy (with water nowhere in sight, mind you) that gives you peace. What kind of peace, you ask? Let's just say your aching soul can now rest. You may, in fact, have just found the man of your dreams. You and your bright yellow friend add to his chest art as he passes by. Rather than continuing on his path through the crowd, he stops. The bowl cut turns around and looks you over, top to bottom to top. With a sly smirk, it speaks. "Ok, my turn. Lift up your shirt so I can draw on your chest now. It's only fair." Oh, really? He shows up looking like a Cabbage Patch Kid from the sea meets Aaron Carter from the streets and he is telling me what is fair? Uh, gross. Now, this may be a long shot, but hear me out. Here's my guess. Due to his surprising (and completely undeserved) level of confidence, I am thinking Patchy Carter, here, has full intentions of riding something other than waves tonight. Soul mate? Totes.

• That whole flat stomach endemic is an urban myth. Ladies like a guy with a beer belly. Why? It shows that he cares about the really important things in life, duh. Also, it is a very clear indicator that he has better things to do than spend all of his time staring at the mirror worrying about his figure. Cute, I know.

• Hey, I think it’s really cool that you’re attractive. Legit. However, you are so sexually liberated that everyone around you feels uncomfortable. Please though, continue on. Dancing like that may catch you a disease or seven, but I am enjoying that I get to watch you sweat your dignity away. Never mind that your date is MIA and no one else is dancing. Who cares that the music stopped 26 minutes ago? The floor is your friend and like any good friend, it will be there for you when you fall.

• I’m sorry you don’t like my sweater. When you’re this pretty, any retarded affectation I decide to put on my body becomes a dignified eccentricity that no real man would dare question. Clearly, you are not a real man.

• Apartment pool parties are feeding grounds for all that is good in the world. 92 degree weather, two cheap beers down and an unflattering bikini group shot later, you and your friends are plastered on the side of a Couch Trip bus headed down Dan Allen. Every now and then you may find a classmate engaging in an intense hula hoop competition, an old roommate participating in a shotgun race or, if you’re lucky, someone’s mom visiting from Hickory. That’s right. Tanaholic recent divorcee with her fresh highlights and new D-cups (if you ain’t no punk, holla we want prenup), your jaw drops as she asks the most attractive pool dwelling male to apply dry oil to her back. As the day progresses and humidity sets in, Mama is lookin’ good. She reminds you of a mystical creature that would rise from the water during Spring Break, try to seduce a 19 year old boy with a goblet of sangria, attempt to 69 him against his will and then scamper away on all fours. Think Lord of the Rings: Daytona Beach. Well, in this case, Wolf Village.

• Hey, you’re really pretty, but please stop ralphing in the corner. I mean, I typically go for the hot guy in the room with vom all over his shirt, but not every girl possesses such refined taste. I’m just looking out for you, big guy.

Cheers.