So, it's been a rough day.  I got a parking ticket, hit a curb, and have a ton of homework with no end in sight.  So, Alana and I decided to do what never fails to make us chuckle:  we watched the Aristocats.  As I was watching, I realized the movie is both adorable, yet also disturbing in many ways.

- The lady wants to leave her fortune to her cats.  That's right.  Not to the people who would take care of her cats.  The cats themselves.  This brings loneliness to a whole new level.  I know people who love their pets a lot, but I don't know anyone who would leave their life's fortune to kittens.  One can only imagine the story of this unmarried, childless woman's life.  

-Thomas O'Malley the alley cat.  Thomas starts trying to woo Duchess when he meets her, but gets freaked when he finds out she has kittens.  It's similar to watching flirting take place in a trailer park.   

-Toulousse - While the other two kittens are clever and resourceful, their pudgy tan sibling seems to be a certain degree of retarded, plunking himself on the piano and splattering paint on the others during "Scales and Arpegios".  While Marie and Berlios are performing music, Toulousse is left to finger paint obscure artwork of the butler, Edgar.

-Roofies - Speaking of Edgar, he fucking roofies the cats, placing sleeping pills in their milk and then transporting their unconscious bodies to an undisclosed location.  While fucking Jafar is at least a magical enough villain to date-rape Jasmine, Edgar has to roofie animals.  What a loser.

I'll give more upon another viewing.

In light of recent personal events, I am offering advice to countless girls and boys everywhere.  Behold, Jenn's top five reasons of why to not get back with an ex:

5)  Awkward interim hookups:

- In the rare event that things will be going well when you and your ex reconnect, there is one thing that will always come up, and will always (most likely) start a cycle of shit with you and your ex.  That is, of course, the dreaded discussion of who, how many, and to what extent did you hook up with people while the two of you were separated.  In this conversation there are two options, neither of which are very palatable:  be honest, or lie.  If you lie, your new/old relationship will be founded on a base of distrust, and most likely crumble.  If you tell the truth, you will both be forced to confront the unappealing mental image of each other banging random people.  Either way, it's not a good prelude to a loving situation.

4)  Friend fall-out:

- After the initial breakup, all your friends/pets had to listen to you sob and/or bitch about your ex.  They most likely helped convince you that you're better off, more attractive, and possibly even more skillful sexually.  When you give them the good news that the two of you are back together, don't be surprised to see rolling eyes and possibly thrown objects.  Don't put your nearest and dearest through the same torment.  Find someone new.

3)  No first time excitements:

- You know the butterflies you get the first time you kiss someone?  Or sex somebody?  Forget all that when you get back together with an ex.  The sex will be the same, more or less, unless they scored some new moves/diseases from topic number 5.  Yucky.

2)  Past precedents:

- The most exciting thing about a new relationship is all the new things the two of you will find to fight about.  With a rekindled flame, you will most likely fight about old times, reminiscing about reasons the two of you still have to resent each other.  It's even more frustrating and less invigorating than the fiery fight of new lovebirds.

1)  You broke up for a reason:

- When you see your ex and they lost weight, or got a nice haircut, or have become otherwise more attractive, it might be easy to forget the things that are still the same about them.  Like their personality.  Obviously it didn't work out for you guys before.  Unless you've gone through some major life changes (like a lobotomy), most likely your personalities will come to the same clash that they have before.  Do yourself a favor and think long and hard not only about the breakup, but the month preceding it.  The (most likely) sexless span of 30 days or so that you spent glaring at each other or responding sarcastically to anything the other said.  

When all is said and done, sometimes love just isn't enough, people.  If the timing isn't right, or too much is going on, then sometimes you just have to cut your losses and learn from your mistakes.  It might sound harsh, but it's better than wasting your time and getting your hopes up.

Though I'm not much of a fan of commenting on my personal life via internet (at least since I stopped shopping at hot topic and spending hours on myspace) today is a big day for me. Today is the last day that I will ever be able to indulge in underage drinking. While most people would be celebrating the fact that they will now be able to legally go out to establishments, spend entire paychecks on overpriced booze and get sweat on by strangers, I am, I must say a bit sad. As of midnight tonight, I will no longer have to sketchily sit in cars while I wait for my roommates to buy me cheap beer. So, as a birthday present to myself, I am allowing an entirely self-absorbed, completely personal post: My Top Five Underage Drinking Experiences.

5) The first time I blacked out: This was not by any means one of my favorite experiences, but it was important in my history of alcoholism nonetheless. I was but a mere child of sixteen, foolish and free, coming off of an ill-advised straight edge phase. In attempts to impress an older boy in a ska band (Dear God, what WAS I thinking????) I arrived with him at a college drop-out's house and began emptying shots of spiced rum down my virgin throat. Cut to the next morning. I am in the basement, lying on the cement, with two slices of wheat bread and a glass of water beside me. Ska boy made out with my friend Becca when I was passed out in the bath tub, after puking my small intestine up all over the bathroom.

4) When I met my friend Christina: My freshman year of college was filled with a lot of irresponsible-at-best rendezvous with underage drinking. But this one was relatively harmless and both entertaining and beneficial towards the rest of my college career. Freshman Jenn is not very happy with college; her roommates are vapid bitches, her dorm is full of bleach-blonde sluts, and every boy that she talks to seems to think she wants to have sex with him. And none of them are cute. Sitting outside, smoking a Marlboro Light outside of her Pierpont dormitory, she strikes up a conversation with a girl she overhears trash-talking the residents of the building. This is Christina.

Christina: They're just all catty sluts and whores. I really can't stand it. Like we're in college now, we're not supposed to act like middle school bitches to each other.

Jenn: You're a bitch.

Christina looks at Jenn, eyes wide, taken aback by her assessment.

Jenn: I love it.

The two then traverse into the building flanked by two random guys that latched on to Christina when they saw the 30 rack that she was carrying around like a friggin' purse. Inside, the rack is emptied, then subsequently made into a bull-shaped pinata and filled with gummy bears.

3) The time I broke my wrist: While the splint was annoying, the story was hilarious. At least to me. Alana, Allison, and I got tickets to see a concert at the Mullins Center, a large venue on my school's campus. As college students, we felt obligated to get shitfaced prior to the show, and ended up downing homemade apple schnapps and Wild Turkey with visiting Kate in the room of some boys we were friends with upstairs. We got sufficiently drunk, then headed out, leaving Kate in the trusted hands of our friends and their alcohol. Kristen worked at the Mullins Center, and scored us wristbands so that we could get down to the floor instead of being confined to our balcony seats. Unfortunately, the floor crowd was a little too rowdy for my drunken state and I got pushed down, landing hard on my wrist. All 100 pounds of Allison sailed through the air at the assailant, punching the 15-year-old high schooler as hard as she could. I only realized my wrist hurt when my adrenaline died down and I sobered up a bit. I then called my roommate insisting that she come get me because I couldn't walk back to the dorm with my wrist injured (???). She was a chump, so she obliged and came and got us. Back at the dorm, we ventured upstairs to find Kate belligerently drunk, the Wild Turkey gone, and our friends very annoyed. One of the boys played rugby so I asked him to wrap my rapidly-swelling forearm, as he was used to caring for injuries. He must have done this three or four times that night, because each time he did, Kate decided I was fine and removed the bandage and yanked my wrist around. Two days later I finally went to the hospital and yeah, it was broken.

There are two linch pins that make this story funny. One is that as we arrived back at the dorm we told my roommate she could park in a lot nearer the building than her usual one. We promised she wouldn't get a ticket. She got a ticket. We promised we'd pay. We didn't. She sucked. The other is that I broke my wrist at a Taking Back Sunday concert.

2) Brush with the law: Junior year I dated a boy named Bryan from Northeastern who didn't drink at all. However, I still did. One of the weekends he came up to visit me, I took him to a big house party. The entire way there Bryan was nervous, certain that the cops were gonna come and we would all be arrested. His assumptions wavered on the side of reasonable seeing as the owner of the house had been arrested earlier that day for underage possession of alcohol. But he got bailed out, so we though it was cool. When we got there, the house was packed, and Bryan got even more freaked out. The whole time I assured him that the cops wouldn't come. The cops came. Perhaps in part due to the fact that my friend Brandon ordered chicken wings to the house the party was at. So, like mature, integrity-filled college students, we ran like hell. Brandon managed to intercept his chicken wings en route to the house, and none of us got arrested. Alana through up mid-step while walking back to her dorm. It was awesome.

1) Kristen's 20th Birthday: Kristen turned 20 our sophomore year on a Friday. So, we obviously began drinking after class, which was at around ten in the morning. The drinking continued at the dining hall, and was punctuated only by naps throughout the rest of the day. The girl was nearly moved to tears when we presented her with her touching gift: a cigarette disposal container Klaiber and I had stolen and had all of our friends draw on. Night fell, and for some reason the entire dorm seemed to have spilled out on the lawn outside. It was there that we noticed SOMEONE HAD STOLEN OUR PICNIC TABLE. Our eyes all immediately flashed to Butterfield, the freshman dorm at the top of the hill. Alana and I headed up to retrieve it. Unfortunately it was very heavy. We sat on the table, kicking and hissing as the freshmen encircled us. But luck was with us that night. A horde of boys from our dorm came to our rescue and helped us carry the table back down the hill, during which I ate shit a few times. The night only ended when the lighting sky reminded us it was nearly morning.

So that's it. The most memorable (or unable to be remembered) experiences of my time as an underage drinker. There were many things I could have included, like the time a boy chased me out of a party shoeless, or when I woke up in protective custody after being spotted drunk upon my first step out of a club. But these 5 are the ones that I cherish, that I wish I had pictures of. So, kiddies, enjoy your time as an underage drinker. You'll feel a lot less badass when it's gone.

So all them youngsters have been screaming and squealing over the upcoming Twilight movie.  Me being extremely pompous and enjoying being able to say "the book was so much better than the movie", I was forced to read the series, so I could sound smart and cool and stuff with the under 21 crowd.  Here is my twilight timeline.  Twimeline:

Twilight:

- first three chapters:  I immediately realize that this book is very poorly written.  Unfortunately at this point I have already injected this 498 page rock of literary crack into my veins and CANNOT STOP READING.  I'm mainlining vampires and suddenly . . .

three hours later . . .

-it's four o'clock in the fucking morning.  I have to get up at seven, but I'm engaged in the vicious cycle of addiction.  I read a chapter.  Then I try to sleep.  But as I try to sleep I wonder what's going to happen to that bitch, Bella, and more importantly, my entirely imagined mental image of her fictionally over-attractive vampire boyfriend.  I become restless with anxiety over the fate of someone that doesn't exist, whose species doesn't even exist, so I do what an addict does, dusting the imaginary bugs off my arms and cook up another hotrail of twilight.

another three hours later . . .

-fuck my life.  I have three chapters left, and got at best a half hour of sleep.  I don't even enjoy reading this anymore.  I've never managed to be simultaneously bored and riveted before, except for maybe the first time I saw the Blair Witch Project.  

that night . . .

-i finished the book.  strange.  I should feel satisfied, but I feel empty.  What would have satiated my Vampire lust before no longer fills the fang-sized void in my soul.  I seem to have built up a tolerance to Twilight.  I must switch to hard-covered books now.  Longer books.  Like New Moon . . . and Eclipse . . . and someday, maybe . . . Breaking Dawn.

Ladies and gentlemen . . . the Oscars.

So, apparently this year's Academy Awards were the least watched in Oscar history or something like that. Coincidentally, this was the only year that I watched the awards in their entirety, except for trips into the kitchen to make instant cake. I must say, I don't think I missed much, besides Rock of Love.

The 80th Academy Awards, or as I will be referring to it until it ceases to be relevant, OscarsMG: Montage Madness was kind of . . . lame.

It may have been the rainy, overcast weather, or the lasting effects of the demoralizing writer's strike, but this past Sunday evening, it seems as though nobody, not even the people attending the ceremony, gave a shit about the Oscars. A permeating haze seemed to linger over Hollywood as everyone emerged from their underground burroughs and realized they had to start working again. The profuse use of girtles on female stars who had anticipated watching Rock of Love also while continuing to binge, as opposed to being, you know, hot like they get paid to be, was noticeable, particularly in Katherine Heigl's disoriented presentation. Collapsed lungs aside, even the usually gregarious stars seemed a bit sullen. Particularly Jack Nicholson, whose lackluster introduction of an even more lackluster montage of previous "best picture" winners, can best be described as "slightly bummed". Silver Lining: J-Nix' inability to get pumped must mean he's no longer blowing nose candy. Good for him; bad for us.

Indeed, it seems that Hollywood had way too much time during the writer's strike, and while most apparently used the time off to become boring and pudgy, others took a different route, presumably abusing hallucinogens and going completely batshit insane. Example: John Travolta and his drag-queen-accompanied twirling entrance which brought to mind horrific childhood memories of the emergency-recalled Skydancer toys. Also, see Daniel Day Lewis's acceptance speech, in which he thanks the academy for wailing him with "the handsomest bludgeon in town". Lewis then proceeded to thank his fictional son from the movie, before - WHOOPS - mentioning his actual wife (whom he addressed as Mrs. Plainview) and kids. I so don't get the British. Also, apparently, There Will Be Blood was a "golden sappling", in addition to being the most secretestly hilarious movie released all year. Go ahead and laugh, kids. It doesn't matter if it's supposed to be serious drama; at least you sound smart when you say that's how you spent your Friday night, when all you really got out of it was mad chucklez and a bed sore from sitting in one spot too long.

Now, come on, who wants a milkshake?

There's been a lot said lately about one of my former childhood heroes. You may have heard of her, but probably not. In any case, Britney Spears, my def fav indie musician seems to be going rather insane. Everyone is spending their time ragging on the shattered pop star/ failed actress, but here is my list of reasons why her impending nervous breakdown is not only acceptable, but furthermore, appealing.

1. She was in the frickin' Mickey Mouse Club.
   If there is any acceptable reason to be bat shit crazy it's the fact that your overbearing momager made you diet and tweeze your eyebrows before you learned cursive. The fact that Britters was forced to parade around on the weekends doing mall tours and child talent competitions when all I wanted to do was go look at the bunnies at the pet store is a valid excuse for crazy.
   
2. She's southern.
   Southern people are crazy. I base this assumption solely on my experience at a gas station somewhere in Tennessee on my way to Bonnaroo.
3. Crazy people are more interesting.
   Remember when Angelina Jolie was fucking Billy Bob Thornton in the backs of limos, wearing viles of blood around her neck, and getting Buddhist monks to chisel tattoos into her back. I do. And she sucks now that she's a "good mother" and "humanitarian".
4. She's more relatable now.
   I'm tired of skinny bitches. When I used to watch the "Baby One More Time" video repeatedly while wearing my Catholic school girl uniform, I was overcome with inadequacy due to the fact that this girl was in fact four years older than me and was already more successful than I would ever become in my lifetime. Now that she's a "frequent and habitual drug-user", bi-polar, unfit parent, well, now I think that's something we can all relate to.
5. She's chunktastickly zexy.
   Britney's chubbers. I'm chubbers. But I didn't lose custody of my kids, so I'm one up on a celebrity.
   

SPOILER

I just saw 28 Weeks later.
Hey, France. Britain's totally calling you out. They're gonna fuck you up . . . with zombies. At least that's how I interpreted it.

This is a rant I've been working on for quite some time, so get ready. It may be a doozie.

It has come to my attention that everyone and their mother now plays guitar. It seems everywhere I go, people are strumming away; dorms, street corners, subways, even the homeless guy outside my apartment has a guitar. Now, I think everyone agrees music is a wonderful thing, and for the most part makes the world a better, happier place. However, there is one issue I have with the ever-growing, pick-wielding crowd: what most of you are producing is not by any means, in any context, actually considered music. You might be able to do some impressive scales, you may even be putting some chords together in some form or pattern. But this is not music. And this non-music that you are making, contrary to popular belief, does not sound better louder. And it does not make you seem cool.
In fact, what you musican'ts are doing is severely dismantling the time honored truth that took decades to engineer, and that is the fact that playing, or even holding a guitar makes one at least 30% more attractive. Case and point: John Mayer. John Mayer isn't currently at the height of his attractiveness, but let's examine him in his hey day, 2001-2003 ish. His Maye Day, if you will. On the cover of Room For Squares he appears to be decent looking at best, goofily smiling, sitting next to a guitar. Fast forward to 2003's Heavier Things. Here, the cover is a smoldering Mayer is holding the guitar. This album debuted at #1. Room for Squares did not. See the correlation. Guitar = Hot. Hot = Sales. Or at least it used to.
What was once a tool for the un-hot to become hot is now a hackneyed hobby for slacker college students. This overabundance of people who think they can play guitar has severely affected the hotness that once accompanied the skill. Guitar related hotness has plummeted from a formerly substantial 30% to a measely 15%. That's a decline of half the hotness associated with the instrument.
These startling figures, however, have not deterred the guitar-massacring crowds. They still play on, seemingly unaware that as they make a sham out of "Stairway to Heaven", Bob Dylan's last chances of hotness are fast fading because of them. But Bob needn't worry. Because fortunately he still has a chance, because he plays another instrument: the harmonica.
The Harmonica's hotness is subtle, but should not be ignored. I once knew a kid with a case full of them, all in different pitches and keys. You can imagine how hot that was. Whew.
So maybe not the harmonica. Definitely not the basoon. But there must be some other instrument that could bring hotness to the hotless for years to come. Whether it be tuba, trumpet, or triangle. We must all do our parts to stop misguided guitarism. Cause honestly, if we don't give it a rest and try something new, the guitar could lose its hotness forever. And I just can't see myself living in a world where the guitar is the new accordion.

It has been two years since I last glanced at this thing, and all I have to say is I'm sorry. I'm sorry to the teacher who assigned this to me, and I mistook for a livejournal, what people did before "blogging". I'm sorry to any person(s) who happened upon it accidentally, unaware of the shitstorm of irrelevant and self-indulgent thought they were about to endure. I'm sorry that it's pink. What is striking is that a lot of my opinions haven't changed. I still think ipods are best if used to ignore people. I still think the choices you make in life will always be of some importance, no matter how minute they may seem. But I don't listen to yellowcard anymore. And if I write poetry, it's not usually about my latest break up. So I think I will take up this shiz again. Minus the bullshit. Minus the bear.

Upon closer examination, I realized almost all of my posts start with some form of "I". "I" am an intensely self-centered person, it seems.

Andrew called me tonight, and we talked for about an hour. He's one of my best friends from home, and one of the only people in my life I can truly trust. He's like a big brother. While we reminisced about old times at home and in high school, we both realized that little things can cause huge changes. We thought back to two springs ago, at the end of my junior year. The end of junior year could best be described as volatile. It was all typical high school bullshit: love triangles, gossip, unkept secrets. It all seemed so important back then. Then we realized something: all of that WAS important. When I think about my life today in terms of the people I'm close with and the choices I make, when I think back to what has set my current path in motion, it all comes back to those couple of months. I replay the unrequited love I had for Paul, or the unrequited love Chris had for me, and I still feel the desparation and longing for simplicity. As turbulent and painful as those few months were, they hold some of my most cherished memories, and formed some of my deepest ties. People always say that all the things you cared about in high school won't matter in ten years or so, but I think that's bullshit. If you live right, everything you do will matter.

I really love the invention of the iPod. Everyone seems to be obsessed with them. If you ask them why they're so desperately in love with the little cluster of metal, microchips, and plastic, they will most likely rattle off a list of reasons: they're convenient, they take up less space than cds, they have good sound quality. I love my iPod for a very different reason: it makes it completely acceptable for me to ignore people. Seriously. When I have my iPod on it's my own little world, and I do not give a shit about anybody else. The rules of social structures no longer apply to me. I see the bitchy girl walking by, who is so fake that she will say hi to me then make a snide comment to her friend. iPodless, I would be compelled to engage in a forced exchange and pretend I give a shit how she's doing, or that she is still breathing for that matter. But I have my iPod today. Therefore, I can walk by her, passing within three feet, and say nothing, not even making eye contact. That's right, bitch. Walk on by.

I'm watching Made right now with my roommates. How come no one writes TV shows anymore? Seriously. All that's on is reality show after reality show. No wonder people say children are getting less creative. TV, what everyone says kills the imagination, isn't even being imaginative anymore. I will admit, I really love America's Next Top Model, though. But none of this is reality. I refuse to believe that that much drama is necessary in life. This post sucks.

I'm homesick again. I want to start making movies again. I miss Mr. Alan. I need his guidance right now.

I've gotten bored with college. I wrote this the other day about when I went to that old "haunted" building me and Joelle used to go to.

The old building stood before us, like a ghost, hollowed out and covered in the dust of what once was. I knew how the old place felt. We walked across the white canvas tarp, leaving a trail of muddy footprints, scrawled like suicide notes. I approached the window, looking up at the daunting, looming edifice towering over me.
“Shall we?” I hoisted myself up on to the ledge and swung my legs over, collecting dust and the glitter of cracked glass on my shirt. I landed with a crash on some skeletal piece of machinery. “Shit.” Joelle laughed and followed suit, as did Erik.
We were inside. This had been our goal for so long, ever since we had first developed our morbid obsession with the abandoned hospital. Now, the time we had come with no plan, no supplies, not even a light to guide us, we had achieved what had been impossible so many times before. The decay of the past three decades crackled under my feet as we passed through the shell of the old mental asylum. The once formidable walls were peeling and crumbling; gates once used to keep people inside now stood more use in keeping them out. The ceiling above us had given way long ago and now stars shined down on us like thousands of tiny eyes. Snow had begun to collect on the floor under the holes, and we shuffled through it.
The headlights from passing cars cast eerie shadows into the building, hitting the trees in front and transforming into figures roaming around. We stood still, in the simultaneous safety and danger of the darkness. If it were security, it would be better to remain in the blackness. If it wasn’t security . . . I shuddered to think what it could’ve been. I heard a shuffling noise from across the room, like the sound of a patient’s slippers would make against the tile. “Let’s get out of here”. We hurried back down the hallway, throwing ourselves through the same broken window through which we had entered. Joelle cut her hand on the glass as she pushed herself over the sill.
We ran away from the old building, to the safety of the orange lights, still haunted by something we couldn’t escape.

I went home over the weekend and it was kind of a disappointment. It was great to see my friends, but the two I wanted to see most weren't there. It's weird and it made me think a lot. I don't really know where home is anymore. It used to be in Walpole, MA, a town only notable for its maximum security prison. It was a boring town, and I spent a lot of time bitching about it. Now when I go back to Walpole, it seems like a shell of what it used to be. Without the people I grew up with, it feels empty and hollow.
When I first got to UMass, it didn't feel at all like home. I hated it at first. All I wanted to do was go home. Now when I do go back to Walpole I want to be back here. It feels almost like I don't have a home anymore.
If I was alotted a moment to think back to my roots as an emo kid, I would say this: there is one thing that connects me to who I used to be, and that is music. Right now I'm listening to Blink182 and Billy Talent, and all I can think of is the stupid shit from two years ago that I hated at the time but miss so much right now. My whole high school career was spent wishing I was in college. Now that I'm in college, I realize how easy high school is, and what an awesome time I had.
I'm never going to have friends by circumstance again.
I'm never going to have to stay friends with someone just because I always have been.
I'm never going to come home from school and shoot the shit with my parents or have them nag me about my school work.
No more proms. No more film festivals. No more skipping study halls.
I loved it all more than I'll ever be able to admit.

I had a wonderful Chinese food dinner for faculty chats last night. It was with the chair of the theater department, I forget his name. His name is inconsequential to this story. In any case, we were sitting around, enjoying mediocre Chinese food from Panda East (I suspect it was not in fact real panda, but rather imitation panda, i.e. chicken with water chesnuts.). We were conversating and I felt kind of like I was eating dinner at a friend's house, trying to make polite conversation, trying to be entertaining without being offensive (something which is becoming more and more difficult each day). At some point, Mr. Theater Chair (T.C. I will call him. There was a cop in my town that everyone called T.C. and he seemed like a pretty good guy.) asked us how we liked UMass. The collective response was that everyone LOVES it here. Except for me, apparently, who sat at the end of the table trying to shovel rice into my mouth with chopstick. (Earlier I had threatened my roommate that if she did not opt for the chopsticks, I would go through her stuff when she wasn't in the room, so I couldn't be a hypocrite.) T.C. asked us why we loved it so, and again I mumbled "I don't". Everyone else started to say the people, the party scene, the excitement of not knowing whether or not you'll be stabbed when you go out on weekends. In any case, I started thinking. Then I stopped because it hurt. But then I started back up again, and I realized it isn't as bad here as I once thought. I also realized I was being a pansy for not saying what I really thought. But whatevs. I might not be able to do film here, but I can deal. As long as I don't take a screwdriver to the temple, I'll be okay.

I’m the kind of person that reads far too much into things. Not into what people do or say, necessarily, but more the involuntary afflictions of the world around me. Today I was walking back from class at Thompson, trying to call Joelle to tell her that Brian might be coming to visit me tonight. My phone wouldn’t work. I tried calling her three times, and each time it gave the same response: network busy. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I wasn’t meant to be on the phone at that time, that something would happen for which I needed to be alert, and that something would happen that was going to change my life. At this point I started listening to the people walking ahead of me. There were two girls with their backs to me, enthralled in what a young man was saying to him. He was reasonably attractive; nothing that would take my breath away. He wore jeans and a jean jacket that didn’t match. At first I thought he was obnoxious for talking so loudly, but then I saw something in him that reminded him of myself when I spoke about something I was passionate about. Then I started listening.
“The only way to get an A in that class is to read the book and come up with an original thought about politics, which is impossible. You can’t come up with an original thought, everyone has had them already?”
I realized he was right. The girls he was talking to batted their eyelashes and asked him to help them study. I wanted to say something to him, a greeting of some sort that would welcome this boy into my destiny. But how do you say, “Hello, I think you’re meant to change my life”, without coming across as completely and entirely insane. You can’t. so I decided to facebook him.
Facebook is an outlet for all personal encounters you’re too scared to have in person. It also allows for awkward meetings with people you’ve friended but never met.
But why am I relying on someone else to change my life? As I walked through the echoey tunnel between southwest and the outside world, it dawned on me that perhaps this boy was not what was meant to change my life. Perhaps I was simply meant to have these thoughts and then go back to my room, shut the door, and write this before it all left my mind and mixed with the blaring rap music that echoed from the third floor. The truth is, at this point I am utterly relying on someone else to change my life, and in that, change me.

The famous Seth Parker told me to write a part from my paper as a screenplay, so here it is.




EXT. POOL AREA - NIGHT

A tired-looking, middle-aged woman sits on the edge of a pool, dangling her feet in the water. This is DIANA. Moonlight reflects off the water, illuminated by lights at various points throughout the yard. A teenage girl comes and sits beside her. This is JENN.

DIANA
(absently)
The fireflies are out tonight.

JENN
(glancing around)
They're pretty.

Diana takes a drag of her cigarette and the smoke swirls overhead.

DIANA
(staring straight ahead)
When we were little we used to try to catch them in Mason jars.
You know what Mason jars are, right?

Jenn nods.

DIANA
We would catch them in these jars and cut air holes in the top,
so we could keep them. But they always ended up dying. Even
when we cut them airholes . . . the fireflies still died . . .

Diana takes another drag from her cigarette, staring out at the water sadly. Jenn watches the smoke circle in the air and sighs.

I just finished my first official college paper. Yes, it's due tomorrow. Yes, I'm a procrastinator. I think I've always been this way. I'm liking college more and more as the days go by. I went home last weekend, and it definitely wasn't what I thought it would be like. First of all, I had to take a bus to Boston. That should've been a 2 hour trip, tops, but it took 4 hours. I had to change busses in Springfield, and then wait for 15 minutes at the Worcester terminal. It was a mess. When I finally got to Boston, I had to wait to be picked up at the bus station. It got weirder when I got into my home town. I felt like a kid who faked sick. The town seemed empty, like I was supposed to be somewhere else, and everyone knew it. When I was little and I stayed home sick, my mother used to always take me out to lunch to cheer me up, unless I was deliriously ill or something. Whenever we saw people we knew I would get embarassed because they knew I should've been in school. I ended up going to a concert with some old friends, one who commutes, one who goes to community college, one who works, and another who goes to Tulane, but was relocated and now commutes to BU. It was weird, but I wanted to be back at UMass while I was there. It was a good concert, though. So I guess going home has cured most of my homsickness. Who'd have thought?

Mr. Seth Parker has just graciously let us out of College Writing early, so I figured the least I could do was to actually write one of these things. Since nothing interesting has happened yet today, I'll write about something that's been floating around my brain for the past couple of days.
Everyone upholds icons from the past with nostalgia. For example The Brady Bunch. Whenever someone criticizes modern entertainment, this show seems to come up. True, the show was successful at being both wholesome and popular, but it's hardly something to which to base the entire decline of culture against. I mean, behind the scenes Greg and Marcia were banging each other all the time. Nostalgia is bullshit. Now we see Peter Brady eating whipped cream off the winner of America's Next Top Model on VH1 and I can't help but wonder if this is symbolic. Are our icons of the past conforming to the oversexed and commercialized media of today? Or have they always been oversexed and commercialized, and now just have an appropriate forum in which to be themselves? I have no answer for these questions, but I will state again, nostalgia is bullshit. Earlier this week, I found myself missing high school and reminiscing about last year. This is bullshit. I hated most of high school. I spent at least half of it wishing I was in college. But somehow I have become able to convince myself that it was the greatest years of my life. Dear God, I hope this is not the case. If so, my life will be an utter sham. The truth is, you always need something to miss, you always need someone to be away from, you always need something to be nostalgic about. I remember being in the car with my friend and his father a couple months ago, and we were talking about memories that we both had from the past. After we had gone through sharing our recollections of middle school, his father turned around. "Nostalgia," he said, "it's just not what it used to be."