Not all of these columns are created equal. Some are written because I’ve had a questionable experience that needs to be published, some because of a holiday or shared event that needs scathing commentary. And some are just written because I have a deadline looming and need the extra spending money. (Let’s not dance around […]
Archive for the ‘Orange Rhymes With’ Category
far this winter has been a bust. The snow decided to skip town and leave the liquefied corpse of snowboarding season in its wake, and the Superbowl was about as exciting as watching Olympic athletes face off against any sports team I’ve ever been a part of. I don’t want to venture too far into […]
A man’s car is like his baby. Wait, no. That may be a bit misleading because I’m really not fond of babies. To clarify, my car is in no way a wrinkled, slobbering cry-monster that needs continuous attention. In fact, the more attention you give her, the more alarmed you may be by the dazzling […]
Every so often in life you run across a significant milestone. At 16 you earn the right to test out your racing abilities, honed by countless hours of “Grand Theft Auto,” in the real world. At 18 you’re allowed to utilize your less-than-comprehensive understanding of national politics (or at least the bits you remember from your high school government class) to influence the presidential election. Somewhere between the ages of 22 and 35 you’ll finally graduate college so you can begin paying down three lifetimes worth of debt.
I’ve already made several huge mistakes this semester — not little mistakes such as forgetting to submit an assignment or showing up slightly late, but big scheduling miscalculations that make my very presence in class a mistake.
When we last left off I was having some sort of stress-induced breakdown in the business lab and undoubtedly alarming everyone within a 10-foot radius. Luckily I’ve had nearly a month to recuperate, which has made me lazier than a heavily medicated sloth.
I grew up on heavy-handed medical dramas that invariably ended every episode with a voiceover spewing generic advice disguised as profound wisdom. I mention this because I have to fight to urge to type a cheesy generic wrap-up column for the final issue of the semester.
This is a column about the worst loss a college student can face.
Having grown weary of his complex role as gatekeeper to all of my most important memories, an occasional coaster and door prop, my laptop Reginald spontaneously combusted early this Sunday.
I’ll level with you here: A good number of these columns require a small bit of embellishment. It’s nothing huge, but some stories just need a bit of exaggeration to be worth printing. This story, however, isn’t able to hide behind the guise of artistic license. I only wish I was lying about spending Halloween surrounded by trash, cracker crumbs and a very old dog.
If you’ve followed my last few columns (just nod and smile, I need this) then it’s becoming fairly obvious that I’m starting to panic.
Suddenly I’ve found myself on the back half of the four-year plan I’m expected to complete, and the pre-graduation panic is setting in. Halfway through mapping out my schedule for spring semester I had a friend glance over my shoulder and incredulously ask, “What in the hell are you even majoring in?”
We all enrolled in college to get jobs.
Also because we had no idea what to do next and just followed the nearest societal expectation in the hopes that it would pay off. Mostly it was the “jobs” bit that brought us to this point though. This is incredibly unsettling considering that most lectures in my business courses revolve around the fact that the job market for recent grads is about as healthy as Nic Cage’s career.
Let me clear up any confusion you might have. This is not a holiday I’m thrilled about experiencing.
The fact that you’re reading a Halloween column a good week and a half before the candy corn apocalypse hits is just further proof I want to hurry up and get it over with. If only October was as efficient as February and ended three days earlier, so I could just skip the entire debacle.
Midterms are hell. You know it. I know it. There’s really no reason to reiterate a topic that 90 percent of these columns reference in one way or another.
That being said, the cumulative stress of midterms couple with the last dying gasps of fall have convinced me that I need to find a few new winter hobbies.