Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Right hand rings are a girl's best friend

People are getting engaged and it's freaking me out.

Yes, it's fun to stalk the engagement pictures and see who can come up with the cheesiest Scrabble configuration.

But I, for one, am not ready for anyone to put a ring on it. People get married at different times, and some people are apparently ready at 22. It works for some people. Some people are ready to settle down and promise forever to their counterpart.

I am not some people. Tis not for me.

Until May 2013, I am married to my desk. I am married to Carroll Hall. I am married to all 700 level classes that start with JOMC. And I am married to a piece of paper that will hopefully come floating my way after the next 18 months of borderline torture.

And as the selfish 22-year-old that I am, I am perfectly ok with that. I am enjoying the freedom of being able to move 400 miles away from anyone I know without looking back.

The second you say "I do" you are part of a whole. Any significant decision you make has to be seconded. These are a few of the things I know about marriage. But in the grand scheme of things, I know nothing about it. I don't know what it's like to have to pick up man panties day after day and I don't have Axe shower gel in my bathroom (though I should look into it cause it smells guuuud). Quite honestly, I really enjoy being alone and having my own space. I enjoy being selfish and ambitious without anything holding me back. Not to say spouses hold you back because I'm sure they can be supportive and warm and fuzzy.

The point is, I'm not getting married anytime soon. So to people looking at me, that think dating someone for a few years automatically means imminent engagement, you will be sorely disappointed.

This includes my grandfather. He relished in my graduation, completing his dream of seeing all seven of his grandchildren graduate college. My fear is that he hopes to see all seven of his grandchildren get married. That being said, if he holds off for that, I may be solely responsible for him living for another 10 or 15 years. My unwillingness to commit makes me godly like that.

But hark! I have a scapegoat. My cousin David is four years older than I am and he is neither married nor engaged. So when my grandfather starts hinting that I look good in white, my first response will be that I'm just waiting my turn, so when David gets married I'll follow suit. On account of not being rude and cutting in line.

So far, this is my most logical and least expletive response.

If that fails, I will tell him I'm still exploring my sexuality and am considering the option of a civil union with Jodi Picoult. That, or that I have a great-grandchild on the way for him and don't want to be pregnant in my wedding dress. Or all of the above, just for fun.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Meow, hiss, scratch, etc.

Friday night, I was as close as I've ever been to getting into a cat fight.

Which isn't saying much, but still.

Now imagine that you're hearing windchime-like music that takes you back to yester-year (in this case, like a month ago.) The j-school has set up a happy hour with the law school. Everything is hunky-dory until one girl writes on the Facebook event, "Journalism?" Another law student jokes about how journalism people think they can keep up with the law school kids (in terms of drinking) and they're gonna show us j-school people how to drink (lol, winky face, other emoticons symbolizing a joke).

At which point, the first girl responds with, AND I QUOTE:

"I'd drink too if I was paying for an education that led me to a dying field with no job prospects or financial security."

WHOOOOAAAAAAAAA.

Can we just agree that that statement is all kinds of wrong? Because I could write for the rest of the night about how we're all actually being PAID to be here and journalism is far from dying, much less how there are more people in law school right now than actual LAWYERS in America.

Anyways, this sparked a bit of a semi-joking, semi-evil back-and-forth (I seem to be very hyphen-happy tonight) between the two groups of students, essentially ending in the journalism kids wishing the law students good luck with the crushing debt they'll face in three years. Although it was a very classy debate, I managed to keep my wiseass mouth shut and took no part (except mentally) in the bickering.

Now windchime back to this Friday night.

My darling law school roommate Tina invites me out with her law friends to a grill where they were showing the Carrier Classic. I agree and off we go.

While watching the game with what seemed like the whole law school, I turn to the girl next to me to start conversation... "Are you a 1L, too?" I ask, with all the charm and adorableness in which I approach everything in life. "Why yes, I am....blahblahblah." We talk for a couple minutes, eventually getting to how I'm in the journalism program.

She brings up the law school/ j-school Facebook event and then insists on introducing me to the girl that started it all, who happens to be standing behind me looking like a hot mess. "No, no that's really not necessary. Seriously. We don't have to do that," I say, to no avail.

Once we're introduced, the girl (who has had a beverage or two) exclaims, "OH MY GAAWWWDDDDD, I HATE you journalism people!"

I'm sorry...do you know me? No. But now that you're about to, I'll make sure your hate is justified.

So somehow we get to the subject of me looking for an internship. "Hopefully it'll turn into a job offer," I say.

"We don't HAVE thosssse," homegirl says.
"Job offers?" I ask with my best "I had no idea that sounded bitchy" look on my face.
"Uhhhhh, no," she replies. "Internships."
*Smirk*

This continues on for a while, me feeling more and more vindicated as homegirl starts to realize that her inebriation level leaves something to be desired, and that my perfect storm of journalistic skills, sobriety and smartass genes makes me much better with words.

She later goes on and on about how she's a Penn State fan and Joe Paterno is a legend. I ask how this has anything to do with my program and she says he's getting fired because of the media, and my program "is the media." I look forward to her career as a lawyer.

Through the ten minute stream of accusations and sheer hatred, I did my best Sorority Cindy impression by smiling and pretending to be patient with this numbnut. In fact, all that was running through my mind was my mother saying I can never hit first, and subsequently two words:

SWING, BITCH.

Oh, it would have felt so good. But alas, I cruised home on the high road, and that is where the story of my first almost-fight ends.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

A note.

Dear bicyclists,

You all suck.

I've never liked you. Maybe when you're normal citizens, yes. But as soon as you get on your little two-wheeled demons, I lose all respect for you.

There is a reason you learn to ride a bike when you're 5. Because you're supposed to get it out of your system by the time you turn 10. By the time you go to college, you should have totally forgotten what a bike is.

I thought the bicyclists were bad at UGA, but my mind has been blown by the outrageousness of UNC riders.

For some reason, you bikers seem to think you should have first dibs on streets, bike lanes AND sidewalks.

You are supposed to stick to the street. It's the law. They even put a bike lane IN the street, so that you don't get pancaked. But you insist on trying as hard as you can to get pancaked anyway.

You don't wear helmets, you run red lights, and you don't stop at crosswalks.

Do you not realize you are quite vulnerable, and, in a fight, my odds are always on the bus? They have those flat fronts to make sure you have the pancake-look you so desire. None of this rolling over the hood stuff. I would even put my odds on an athlete's scooter over you - the first time a scooter has ever seen a mention of my odds. You would still lose.

As for being on sidewalks...what the heck, kids?

All I'm tryna do is get to Carroll Hall. You're on the sidewalks, whizzing past me like I'm in your way.

It is a SIDEWALK. Meant for PEDESTRIANS. Do not look at me outraged when I "get in your way."

You are a silent demon, lurking in the shadows of campus, just waiting for me to look away from you so that you can speed past me and make me pee a little in fear of my life.

Can I just walk to the bus in peace, please?

Regards,

Every campus pedestrian ever