So as of late I may have been a negative Nancy, a Debbie downer if you will. You see, a handful of not so great things have happened in my life over the last two months, falling down stairs, wrecking my car, getting money stolen from me, etc. and etc. And it all seemed a little ridiculous. Because these things, while not life shaking or tragic, just seemed to keep coming, one after the other. I have never considered myself lucky. I bet you money that if I go to a McDonald's with a large group of people, and one delicious cheeseburger order goes amiss, time and time again it will be mine. I fall down a great deal. So I'm used to life's little bumps and sometimes quite literal bruises. But something about the last couple of months, maybe because it's winter, maybe because graduation is coming at a frighteningly rapid pace and it's freaking me out, whatever it is, something about the last two months has left me feeling beaten down, broken down, just down. This past weekend while I was dog-sitting, my roommate's dog ate a bottle of Advil, which resulted in a frantic doggie ER visit in the wee hours of morning (thankfully she's quite okay and back to her lovable/awkward self again). But let's just say the experience left me feeling pretty awful (even though my roomie's wallet is probably feeling a lot worse). So just as I was beginning to recover from all of that craziness, yesterday the Americorps people somehow completely forgot that I had scheduled a phone interview for 10 am (which I had gotten up early just so I could prepare for). After rescheduling yet again, I hung up with them and was pretty sure I had reached my breaking point. I sat at my computer desk, and I cried, out of frustration, out of anger, out of stress and worry and just the general negativity that has clouded my life lately.
So here's the deal. Some crappy things have happened to me recently. And I've spent so much energy and time focusing on those crappy things, so much so that I have completely ignored the hundreds of beautiful things that happen in my life on a daily basis. I'm not being a Pollyanna. I don't even think I'm being particularly corny. This is the truth. Somehow even though we're in the middle of it, we often see our own lives in broad strokes. We see the bold or italics, the red letter moments or experiences. But what I have constantly believed, will always believe, is that life is in the details. And some details can go bad, little, stupid daily things, but the vast majority of our details are the good stuff. And I don't know what it was. Maybe it was babysitting last night and watching The Little Mermaid for the 12th time in the last two months, complete with back up vocals by a two and a four year old. Maybe it was the glorious nap I took yesterday. Maybe it was just the fact that I couldn't deal with any more negativity, because negativity colors everything and only breeds more negativity. But something kicked me in the ass (in a good way), slapped me around a little, and told me to wake the eff up. All I've been seeing is the bad, but for God's sake, the second I stopped doing that I saw the cornucopia (yes cornucopia) of awesomeness that surrounds me. I saw not one, not two, but three amazing live music shows in the past month (more on those in another blog). I am taking interesting classes this semester that I love, and I'm actually looking forward to the research paper I'm going to write for my Mid. East politics class (yes I'm a dork). I live in an apartment that I adore, bugs and busted kitchen equipment included. I'm surrounded by tiny little things that make me smile, favorite books, awesome tv shows, two hours of 90210 every day for Lord's sake. I live in the loveliest, most graceful city in the world, a city that can still break my heart with her beauty in even the most mundane moments, driving over the bridge at rush hour, the harbor to my right and the blue Atlantic just visible at the horizon. Or when I'm taking a walk along the same path I have taken hundreds of time, but still find myself pausing to peek in half hidden courtyards or to just look down a quiet, spanish moss strewn street and wonder what I did to deserve to live in a place like this. I'm surrounded by friends I love and who are wonderful and kind and loyal. I have a family who supports me even when I want to get paid nada to go off and join Americorps for the year.
I wasn't visited by an angel with an affinity for Mark Twain. There was no almost dive off a bridge into icy water. But I can't help but feel that in some tiny away, the last couple of days have taken me by the shoulder, and said in no uncertain terms that see, I really do have a wonderful life. We so often want to confuse wonderful with perfect. Because the idea of perfect is so wonderful and enticing. But perfect is a fairy tale word. Except for Olympic scores, it doesn't really belong here. But wonderful, that's the stuff of every day, the stuff of snooze buttons and Cadburry Cream Eggs and DVD on tv marathons. But inside of wonderful there's things that really suck, banged up legs and even more banged up cars, sick dogs and horrible advisers. But those things are never going to go away. Tomorrow I could very well fall off my porch, total my car and get kicked out of college. But that's life. It's annoying and stressful and sad and crazy and weird and awkward and scary. It makes no sense whatsoever. But it's always, in no uncertain terms, wonderful.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
the cutting edge 3?!
So imagine my surprise. Here I am enjoying my normal morning routine: peanut butter toast, coffee, Gilmore Girls, when I see a commercial for The Cutting Edge 3. Now this might be a made for ABC Family movie, but still. My beloved, childhood movie The Cutting Edge has spawned not one, but two sequels! Growing up, I probably watched this movie about once a week. I wanted to be Moira Kelly in this movie, the glorious 80s hair, the ice-skating rink in her backyard, the awesome spandex outfits, the hunky hockey player love/hate relationship. At a very impressionable age, I learned from this movie how to take a tequila shot. Although at the time I didn't really know what tequila was, and I simply thought adults took every shot by first licking salt off of their wrists and then shoving a lime in their mouths. Thank God I quickly learned this was not the case. I still chuckle to myself every time I hear the phrase "toe pick." I can't not watch figure skating at the Winter Olympics. Let's just say in the pantheon of movies you love when you're little, The Cutting Edge, for me, was right up there with Jurassic Park and Wild Hearts Can't be Broken ( I was a weird kid okay). Yet I've accepted that most people do not view The Cutting Edge with the same adoration. In fact, most people have never even heard of it, unless I have forced them to watch it with me. So the fact that two sequels to this movie have been made absolutely blew my mind. Because it means that I am not the only one who loves this film or figure skating romantic comedies. In fact it means there is probably a whole group of people out there, anonymous but devoted, who are like me, who absolutely have to watch The Cutting Edge when it comes on television, all prior plans be damned, who still have crushes on D.B. Sweeney, and who get a little choked up at the end of the movie when they pull off the fancy schmancy, illegal ice skating move and smooch at the end of their routine.
Monday, March 3, 2008
solitute and road trips
I have a confession. On occasion, I am a loner. I not only enjoy some good alone time, but revel in it. This is not to say I'm some would-be hermit or misanthrope. I like fresh air. I don't panic at the sight of crowds. But, while I love and adore my friends, I also love and adore the times I can just hang out with me, myself and I. An ideal alone night: a nice glass of Pinot Grigio around 6 while watching the second Beverly Hills 90210 episode on Soap Network (right now I'm right in the midst of the whole juicy Kelly/Dylan/Brenda cycle and I remember so clearly watching these episodes when they first came on, when I was very, very little, and being shocked, just SHOCKED at the whole situation), making dinner around 7ish (something especially yummy, whole wheat pasta with home made tomato sauce and cucumber, tomato and feta cheese salad). A really good night of television makes for an ideal alone night (Monday for example with John and Kate Plus Eight at 9, then No Reservations at 10, or Thursday as soon as new television starts up again when I can enjoy The Office, 30 Rock and Lost). There's got to be some quality internet surfing (a little People.com or eonline perhaps if I'm feeling particularly vapid), all polished off with a Daily Show and Colbert Report hour before bed. If I'm still awake at this point then a good book in bed makes for the perfect end to the night. Nights out with friends are the good stuff in life, the substance. But nights in by myself are what charge my batteries and keep me sane so I can enjoy and stay awake during the good parts of life. And sometimes it's really insanely hard to beat climbing into my pajamas before dinner and spending the rest of the night in vegetable mode.
My last few blogs have been decidedly negative and rage filled, and unfortunately my rage prevented me from discussing perhaps the biggest highlight of this otherwise sucky, sucky past month and a half (I'm sorry, I'm trying to be positive, but there's no denying the utter suckage of so many moments in the early parts of this semester) But I digress. Two weeks ago I road-tripped from Farmville, VA to Chapel Hill, NC with some buddies to go see a show on Will Ferrel's Funny or Die tour. I have never been to anything like it. Imagine a massive coliseum, completely packed with mostly college students, and watching stand-up in this atmosphere. It was nuts, like some weird rock show-comedy club hybrid. And I almost peed myself so, so many times. I knew Demetri Martin would be hilarious because well, if you've ever watched any clip of Demetri then you'd know this. But the other two stand ups, Nick Swarsdon and Zach Galfinakis (I'm almost postiive that's the wrong spelling but I don't feel like looking it up) were awesome and genius. I was surprised when Nick Swarsdon took the stage, because I realized I knew him as Terry, the gay, roller blading prostitute on Reno 911. And he's now one of my new favorite people. And of course seeing Will Ferrell in all of his silly, goofy glory was awesome. But I also loved the whole process of going to the show. I know that you can road trip post-college, but I have a feeling it won't be the same. I have been on countless of these mini-road trips, to concerts, to visit friends. And somehow the very mundane act of being stuck in a car for a few hours becomes something bigger than the sum of its parts. It's the moment when you first pull onto the interstate, surrounded by friends, the whole experience ahead of you. It's pulling through drive-thrus after a concert, when you're still a little giddy or keyed up from the show and hungry in a way you've never been hungry before, for greasy cheeseburgers and chicken nuggets that will never taste better than when you're sitting in the back seat of a darkened car in what feels like the middle of nowhere. It's going through dozens of tiny Virginia or North Carolina or South Carolina towns, sleepy, forgotten southern villages that you could drive through in twenty years and find almost completely unchanged. It's the moments on the way back, in the early hours of the morning, with friends asleep in the back, and the music on high, staring out at patches of farmland underneath speckles of stars. Or the completely random, hysterical conversations that spring from boredom or exhaustion or anticipation. It's getting lost repeatedly, and the triumph of finally finding the place. It's gas stations, loading up on soda and snacks and stretching out sore, stiff limbs. It's knowing that road trips, in all of their spontaneous, impractical glory, are perhaps the quintessential expression of youth for college aged kids. We can drive four hours to see a really great band perform in podunk Appalachia and not get back till practically dawn. We can leave early in the morning and spend an entire day driving without getting fired from a job or chewed out by a spouse. Road trips are almost mythic in the American imagination. Think of how many books, movies, Journey songs focus on the simple act of being on the road. Even more so than where a road trip takes you, there's a simple kind of freedom in movement itself. It's being unattached, uncommitted. It's the beauty of irresponsibility. It's knowing that life will probably never be as pure or as easy as this again.
My last few blogs have been decidedly negative and rage filled, and unfortunately my rage prevented me from discussing perhaps the biggest highlight of this otherwise sucky, sucky past month and a half (I'm sorry, I'm trying to be positive, but there's no denying the utter suckage of so many moments in the early parts of this semester) But I digress. Two weeks ago I road-tripped from Farmville, VA to Chapel Hill, NC with some buddies to go see a show on Will Ferrel's Funny or Die tour. I have never been to anything like it. Imagine a massive coliseum, completely packed with mostly college students, and watching stand-up in this atmosphere. It was nuts, like some weird rock show-comedy club hybrid. And I almost peed myself so, so many times. I knew Demetri Martin would be hilarious because well, if you've ever watched any clip of Demetri then you'd know this. But the other two stand ups, Nick Swarsdon and Zach Galfinakis (I'm almost postiive that's the wrong spelling but I don't feel like looking it up) were awesome and genius. I was surprised when Nick Swarsdon took the stage, because I realized I knew him as Terry, the gay, roller blading prostitute on Reno 911. And he's now one of my new favorite people. And of course seeing Will Ferrell in all of his silly, goofy glory was awesome. But I also loved the whole process of going to the show. I know that you can road trip post-college, but I have a feeling it won't be the same. I have been on countless of these mini-road trips, to concerts, to visit friends. And somehow the very mundane act of being stuck in a car for a few hours becomes something bigger than the sum of its parts. It's the moment when you first pull onto the interstate, surrounded by friends, the whole experience ahead of you. It's pulling through drive-thrus after a concert, when you're still a little giddy or keyed up from the show and hungry in a way you've never been hungry before, for greasy cheeseburgers and chicken nuggets that will never taste better than when you're sitting in the back seat of a darkened car in what feels like the middle of nowhere. It's going through dozens of tiny Virginia or North Carolina or South Carolina towns, sleepy, forgotten southern villages that you could drive through in twenty years and find almost completely unchanged. It's the moments on the way back, in the early hours of the morning, with friends asleep in the back, and the music on high, staring out at patches of farmland underneath speckles of stars. Or the completely random, hysterical conversations that spring from boredom or exhaustion or anticipation. It's getting lost repeatedly, and the triumph of finally finding the place. It's gas stations, loading up on soda and snacks and stretching out sore, stiff limbs. It's knowing that road trips, in all of their spontaneous, impractical glory, are perhaps the quintessential expression of youth for college aged kids. We can drive four hours to see a really great band perform in podunk Appalachia and not get back till practically dawn. We can leave early in the morning and spend an entire day driving without getting fired from a job or chewed out by a spouse. Road trips are almost mythic in the American imagination. Think of how many books, movies, Journey songs focus on the simple act of being on the road. Even more so than where a road trip takes you, there's a simple kind of freedom in movement itself. It's being unattached, uncommitted. It's the beauty of irresponsibility. It's knowing that life will probably never be as pure or as easy as this again.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
fumigation
I have been called mellow on more than one occasion. This always comes as a shock. Maybe I don't always display my anger, but that doesn't mean it's non-existent. And at this particular moment at midnight on a Monday night, I'm particularly angry about a lot of things that will undoubtedly seem silly and stupid in a few days/months/years time. But I need to sleep tonight and I won't without venting so here goes. Disclaimer for pettiness and rage induced irrationality.
F-ing Henry's on Market has still not returned the 100 DOLLARS they stole from me more than a week ago. It's unacceptable. For some, having 100 dollars go missing from your bank account isn't a big deal. But I'm a college student aka poor. And to have them take the money wrongly, then take their sweet freaking time getting it back to me not only makes me vow to never go there again, but to spread the word until everyone I know never goes there again. Oh and maybe plan to spray some crude graffiti on their walls, until I realize that I could never in my life spray graffiti unless it was directed at a canvas owned by myself. But still, freaking Henry's is now my mortal enemy. And I just know if I was some 50 year old local with a house south of Broad I would have had my money back a week ago, plus an apology from the manager. College students are people too, Charleston drinking establishments! And the amount we spend on alcohol probably pays your bills. So one more reason you suck!
My adviser. It's official. College advisers are worthless. They're professors with other jobs to do who get assigned students whether they want them or not. Some advisers may find a way to pay attention to their advisee and actually, you know, advise them. But my adviser unfortunately is too caught up in her career or book deal or whatever to give me the time of day. As a result, more than two months after the end of last semester, I still do not have a grade for my last semester internship, except for the big fat, F, the Registrar's Office put in its place because it has been so long. Meanwhile I have literally done all but show up at this woman's house. I have resorted to putting "read receipts" in all my e-mails to her like a crazy person. I show up at her "office hours", but shock of all shocks she's not there. What do I have to do?! Hire a sky-writer to spell out "talk to your frickin' advisee" across the sky above the College of Charleston? Kidnap her baby and use my grade submittal as a ransom? College seniors, heck college students in general are stressed enough, busy enough, everything enough. The least an institution could do is spring some bucks to hire people who specialize in advising instead of sticking us with whatever professor happens to catch their fancy. College and its layers and layers of paperwork and procedure and bureaucracy is confusing! We need people who can actually help us, who want to help us. And the part that gets me the maddest is that finally this woman responds to the plethora of panic e-mails I have been sending her way, and she writes back a terse, two sentence reply. No apology. No excuse. She simply doesn't care. She doesn't care that I'm a graduating senior who has to sort through the confusing mess of getting my credits in order with my major department, my minor department, the Honors College and the general college by May. I had this woman as a professor and I used to respect her. But at this point I'm tired and never want to deal with her again. I wash my hands of advising. At least in my experience it was at best a joke, at worst a pain in the ass.
Annotated bibliographies. Yeah, you heard me. I'm pissed off about annotated bibliographies. Of all the ridiculous, time wasting things I've had to do in college, these may take the cake. Unfortunately I have two classes requiring them this semester. But seriously? Isn't a bibliography one of those magical things that speaks for itself. Like a table of contents, or a title page? If a professor really wants to know what a source is about can't he or she just look it up and read the abstract? Shouldn't he or she be doing that anyway to check for that whole plagiarism thing, i.e. the whole point of doing a bibliography in the first place? And if it's not for the professor, then why the hell do I need to annotate my own bibliography. If I'm writing a fifteen page research paper I should darn well hope that I know what my sources are about without having to refer to my bibliography. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This may sound petty, and okay, well sure it's petty. But right now I'm in a petty mood so just roll with it.
So what really got me in this mood tonight was seeing another example of something that's hard to explain. I'll just say that I'm feeling a little stung by a former employer. And it's completely on my end, because clearly the position has evolved. But it evolved after I left, and maybe it's childish or stupid and I'm sure I'll realize as much or just get over it, but I feel upset, or to really be blunt, like I wasn't as good as whoever is there now, and these changes reflect this new person's initiative or drive or motivation or just likability and as a result this person has gotten all these cool new things to do or credits or what not. And this probably makes no sense, but I at least have the restraint not to go into deeper detail. Because this is really more me feeling childish jealousy than anything else. The experience was amazing and life changing and I shouldn't let stupid things alter that. So there. Even within this posting I'm learning to channel my rage into more zen-like avenues.
And finally I'm just mad at this past month for its unbelievable amount of suckage (although there were good parts, and I will go into further detail about the amazing Funny or Die show and our road trip to go see it later). But all in all a lot of sucky things have happened this month; the trivial (falling down the stairs way back in January and I'm still bruised), the less trivial (hitting another car with my car in a seemingly minor fender bender but which ended up sending my car to the shop for more than a week and costing my very understanding parents our entire 1,000 deductible. Sorry mom and dad!) and the very not trivial (serious sickness in the family and the death of a kind and interesting lady who hosted one of my friends in Paris and who let our silly bunch into her big, old apartment on a regular basis to drink wine and watch tv. I'm more sorry for my friend who knew her well. I knew her only passing, but she made a definite impression and it's a sad thing that she's gone. Future Hollins abroad kids will never know the pleasure of wine and board games at Beatrice's house.)
So that's that. I feel better now. And as always talking about the big, sad things reminds me of how really silly and unimportant the little things ultimately are. I get mad, and I fume, and I vent. I cry or rant or kick something. But hopefully I come back to a place of perspective. I think I at least found that tonight. Hopefully that means I'll be able to sleep :)
F-ing Henry's on Market has still not returned the 100 DOLLARS they stole from me more than a week ago. It's unacceptable. For some, having 100 dollars go missing from your bank account isn't a big deal. But I'm a college student aka poor. And to have them take the money wrongly, then take their sweet freaking time getting it back to me not only makes me vow to never go there again, but to spread the word until everyone I know never goes there again. Oh and maybe plan to spray some crude graffiti on their walls, until I realize that I could never in my life spray graffiti unless it was directed at a canvas owned by myself. But still, freaking Henry's is now my mortal enemy. And I just know if I was some 50 year old local with a house south of Broad I would have had my money back a week ago, plus an apology from the manager. College students are people too, Charleston drinking establishments! And the amount we spend on alcohol probably pays your bills. So one more reason you suck!
My adviser. It's official. College advisers are worthless. They're professors with other jobs to do who get assigned students whether they want them or not. Some advisers may find a way to pay attention to their advisee and actually, you know, advise them. But my adviser unfortunately is too caught up in her career or book deal or whatever to give me the time of day. As a result, more than two months after the end of last semester, I still do not have a grade for my last semester internship, except for the big fat, F, the Registrar's Office put in its place because it has been so long. Meanwhile I have literally done all but show up at this woman's house. I have resorted to putting "read receipts" in all my e-mails to her like a crazy person. I show up at her "office hours", but shock of all shocks she's not there. What do I have to do?! Hire a sky-writer to spell out "talk to your frickin' advisee" across the sky above the College of Charleston? Kidnap her baby and use my grade submittal as a ransom? College seniors, heck college students in general are stressed enough, busy enough, everything enough. The least an institution could do is spring some bucks to hire people who specialize in advising instead of sticking us with whatever professor happens to catch their fancy. College and its layers and layers of paperwork and procedure and bureaucracy is confusing! We need people who can actually help us, who want to help us. And the part that gets me the maddest is that finally this woman responds to the plethora of panic e-mails I have been sending her way, and she writes back a terse, two sentence reply. No apology. No excuse. She simply doesn't care. She doesn't care that I'm a graduating senior who has to sort through the confusing mess of getting my credits in order with my major department, my minor department, the Honors College and the general college by May. I had this woman as a professor and I used to respect her. But at this point I'm tired and never want to deal with her again. I wash my hands of advising. At least in my experience it was at best a joke, at worst a pain in the ass.
Annotated bibliographies. Yeah, you heard me. I'm pissed off about annotated bibliographies. Of all the ridiculous, time wasting things I've had to do in college, these may take the cake. Unfortunately I have two classes requiring them this semester. But seriously? Isn't a bibliography one of those magical things that speaks for itself. Like a table of contents, or a title page? If a professor really wants to know what a source is about can't he or she just look it up and read the abstract? Shouldn't he or she be doing that anyway to check for that whole plagiarism thing, i.e. the whole point of doing a bibliography in the first place? And if it's not for the professor, then why the hell do I need to annotate my own bibliography. If I'm writing a fifteen page research paper I should darn well hope that I know what my sources are about without having to refer to my bibliography. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This may sound petty, and okay, well sure it's petty. But right now I'm in a petty mood so just roll with it.
So what really got me in this mood tonight was seeing another example of something that's hard to explain. I'll just say that I'm feeling a little stung by a former employer. And it's completely on my end, because clearly the position has evolved. But it evolved after I left, and maybe it's childish or stupid and I'm sure I'll realize as much or just get over it, but I feel upset, or to really be blunt, like I wasn't as good as whoever is there now, and these changes reflect this new person's initiative or drive or motivation or just likability and as a result this person has gotten all these cool new things to do or credits or what not. And this probably makes no sense, but I at least have the restraint not to go into deeper detail. Because this is really more me feeling childish jealousy than anything else. The experience was amazing and life changing and I shouldn't let stupid things alter that. So there. Even within this posting I'm learning to channel my rage into more zen-like avenues.
And finally I'm just mad at this past month for its unbelievable amount of suckage (although there were good parts, and I will go into further detail about the amazing Funny or Die show and our road trip to go see it later). But all in all a lot of sucky things have happened this month; the trivial (falling down the stairs way back in January and I'm still bruised), the less trivial (hitting another car with my car in a seemingly minor fender bender but which ended up sending my car to the shop for more than a week and costing my very understanding parents our entire 1,000 deductible. Sorry mom and dad!) and the very not trivial (serious sickness in the family and the death of a kind and interesting lady who hosted one of my friends in Paris and who let our silly bunch into her big, old apartment on a regular basis to drink wine and watch tv. I'm more sorry for my friend who knew her well. I knew her only passing, but she made a definite impression and it's a sad thing that she's gone. Future Hollins abroad kids will never know the pleasure of wine and board games at Beatrice's house.)
So that's that. I feel better now. And as always talking about the big, sad things reminds me of how really silly and unimportant the little things ultimately are. I get mad, and I fume, and I vent. I cry or rant or kick something. But hopefully I come back to a place of perspective. I think I at least found that tonight. Hopefully that means I'll be able to sleep :)
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
oh life
Henry's on Market charged me 100 dollars for a non-existent bar tab (mine was only 7 dollars thank you very much, I like to have fun on a Saturday night but I usually don't drink 100 dollars worth of alcohol myself). My adviser avoids me like I'm the plague and as a result I have an F listed for my skirt! internship last semester which brings my GPA far below where it needs to be to graduate from the Honors College in May (although if I have to knock down every door at the College of Charleston or body slam some people I will get this fixed. And no I don't know why body-slamming would be necessary, nor have I ever done this before, but I'm just sayin'). So I should be cranky, grumpy, crabby, grouchy, every variation on the word pissy. And for a moment earlier this evening when I learned of these two things one after, I may have been. But I made a choice. I took some time away from my computer which seemed to be only the bringer of evil tidings. I poured myself a glass of Pinot. I got in a good dose of reality tv smorgashbord, America's Next Top Model premiere and the always entertaining Project Runway reunion (by the way I so called that there would be a Ricky crying montage, there would be no justice in the world had there not been). I took a deep breath, tested out my new camera and all of its super cool, fancy settings on kitten (Palmetto if you want to be formal but I've had a hard time calling something so tiny by a real name, it's like babies, for the first few months of their existence sure you can call them George or Patsy, but really when it comes right down to it, "baby" is the only thing that really fits). And then I remembered that in one day I will be in Richmond seeing my mom and brother. And in two days I will be reunited with some of my favorite people in the entire world and together we will see Will Ferrel and Demetri Martin in Chapel Hill. So really, how could I stay down, when such fabulousness awaits me. Life is good, even if people try to steal my money and give me failing grades for no reason. Life is good.
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