Day 226 of College: Thinking is the WORST

Today...


Blogger changed its format. Only very slightly. They added a spell-check button. 


I hate it. 


I'm freaking out. It's like chicken little up in here. The sky may or may not be falling. It is yet to be seen. 


And, come on Blogger..We both know that Google Chrome does my spell checking, thank you very much. 


Though, let's be honest here...Google Chrome does a really, really terrible job. 


So maybe it's best that there's now an alternative. 


Whatever. 


So...I'm being indecisive again. (It's kinda my thing. That, blogging and being really, really poor.)  I keep changing my major. Stupid college. Why can't I just major in eating, sleeping and, you know, thinking and stuff? 


Oh wait...I could...it's called philosophy! (Ba-dum, ching!) 


Ball State really does have a philosophy major. You can major in...thinking. Then again, you can also major in psychology which is like majoring in thinking about other people thinking. 


Meta. 


My unreasonable hatred toward thinking aside, I really do hate this whole "choose a major" business. Why can't they just, like, pull a China and assign us careers? I'd be more than cool with that. Unless, of course, my career was something math-related. Or spanish-related. Or thinking-related. 


Whatever. Once they build time machines, I'll transport myself back to the pre-Cold War Soviet Union and be a wheat farmer. I'd be such a cool wheat farmer. They'd call me Danielle, the slayer of all that is wheat and...


I think this is getting out of hand. 


Also, I had a fish die last week. So I'm allowed to be mostly insane and rambly. 


I'm not over his passing yet. 


I tried to use "my fish died" as an excuse to not turn in a paper. It did not work. I had to write the stupid paper. 


I tried to use "Captain America died" as an excuse not to take a test (because Captain America was my fish's name and all). It did not work. And now my history professor thinks that I'm a lunatic. 


So, now only Archduke Franz Ferdinand remains alive in the tank that was once also home to Batman and Captain America. Sigh. Why do all the fishes I love leave me? 


I should buy a shark. Sharks never die. Well, I mean, they do...but I understand they are much more hardy than, you know, goldfish and the like. 


Most things are more hardy than goldfish and the like. 


But, sharks. I would buy a shark and name him or her Fredrick Douglas. Because my whole "name-all-the-animals-after-only-dead-historical-figures" thing. And also my blatant disregard for the animal's actual gender (as can be evidenced by my naming a girl turtle Pope John Paul). 


...I miss Pope John when I'm a college. If only he was allowed here with me. Oh, all the wacky escapades that we would have together. 


Danielle OUT. 

Day 218 of College: Near Misses and Nervous Breakdowns

Today...


A swarm of vicious wood bees almost killed me. It was thisclose. 


For those of you not in the know, wood bees are the huge black ones that are approximately the size and shape of my big toe the time that I dropped my laptop on it. 


I don't understand how they fly. I really, really don't. 


My problem with wood bees aside, I have had a very odd week. It's just been all-around weird. 


We'll start with this weekend, shall we? We shall and you get no say in it. Ha. 


Anyway, I went to Cinciatti this weekend (yes, I know I misspelled that. Google Chrome had informed me.). While in Sinsenatty (at this point I'm juts being a smart ass) I visited Ikea. 


My mind was blown. 


If there's ever an zombie apocolypse, I'm headed straight for Ikea. There's enough food/couches there to feed/sit an army. Despite my Ides of March resolution not to spend any more loan money on stupid stuff, I bought a whole ton of stupid stuff. 


Those purchases included but were not limited to a pair of shark-flops (flip-flops with sharks on them), a tiny little wooden man and an aloe vera plant that I named Vladimir Putin. 


...I can spell Vladimir Putin right on the first try, but not Cincinattii. Mine is an odd sort of mind. 


Anyhow, it turned out that my Ikea escapades were just, like, a set up for the wackiness that would ensue in the rest of my Cincinatty trip. 


I would spend paragraphs upon paragraphs describing what led up to this particular incident, but I really don't think I can honestly justify it. 


I had a nervous breakdown. In the middle of a Ralph Lauren. 


I'm not kidding. 


I shouted at my shopping companions that they were "spending too much effing money" and that their Ralph Lauren clothes were "the stupidest things that I had ever seen." 


I almost threw a vase out the window. 


There was a lot of uncomfortable silence and staring in Ralph Lauren after I was through. Also, apparently, I've been saying Ralph Lauren wrong for my entire life. Lauren is not pronounced "Lauren." It's apparently pronounced Ralph Lau-REN. There's a straight-up nonsensical emphasis on the REN. 


Of all the douche-baggery in all the malls of all the worlds...Ralph Lau-REN is the freaking worst. 


Hold me back. I may just burn down a country club. 


I hear buzzing...


...the end is nigh. The wood bees have found my super-secret hiding place. 


Danielle OUT

Day 137 of College: Resolutions and Recaps

Today...


Happy New Years Eve and all that. Apparently the word will end in 2012. Hm. It would save me the trouble of having to pick a stupid major...


Moving on. 


This whole week has been filled with pain and general oddness. Let's do a day by day playback, shall we? 


On Monday...I chase my family's new kittens with a remote control car. I drive the car off the edge of the stairs. The car breaks. My little brothers both cry. 


On Tuesday...I stay in bed. ALL DAY. Seriously. I don't get up once. I give my siblings quarters to fetch me refreshments. 


On Wednesday...Not much happens. 


On Thursday...I walk in the dark, trip over the carcass of the remote control car I killed on Monday and drop my laptop. My laptop costed me pretty darn close to a thousand dollars. So, in the .8 seconds before that sucker hits the ground, I have a choice to make. My laptop or my foot. I chose my laptop. 


On Friday...My big toe is almost definitely broken. It is twice the size of a normal toe. Also, it's purple. It looks like a poisoned cocktail weenie. But my computer is fine!


On Saturday (also known as today)...I go shoe-shopping. With a BROKEN TOE. In summation, I now believe that shoe-shopping with a broken toe is a punishment for the most terrible people in Hell. You know, the murderers and the rapists. And the people who cut me off in the checkout line at Wal-Mart. 


According to Google Chrome, Wal-Mart is totally legitimate word. Really, Google Chrome? Wal-Mart is a word and Zealand isn't? Oh, you wacky internet server you. 


Anyway. It's been a delight blogging for all of you this year,  my loyal followers. It's been almost like having friends!


...And what's my New Year's resolution, you ask? Why to be more positive, of course! 


Hahahahahaha. No. 


Danielle OUT. (See you all in 2012!) 

Day Seventy-Six of College: Highlighters, IHOP and Stuff

Today...


I'm tired. Like, so, so, so, so tired. Cause, I went to a party last night, dressed as a German barmaid no less. Granted, it was a Halloween party. I don't go to normal parties dressed as a German barmaid. Then again, I don't go to many normal parties. Or any, really. 


Yep. 


So, I really should go take a shower. I'm dressed in my clothes from yesterday and I have highlighter all over me. Highlighter glows like crazy in blacklights. And there were blacklights last night. So, naturally, I colored all over myself with highlighter. It made sense at the time. Also, I slept on the floor. So...a shower miiight be in order. Maybe. 


I went to IHOP this morning. I love IHOP. I love IHOP more than it's healthy for someone to love IHOP. I love IHOP like a harbor seal loves crack cocaine. That's how much I love IHOP. But, apparently, there aren't many other interesting things to do in Muncie besides going to IHOP because its always frickin crowded in that joint. Seriously. My friend and I had to wait twenty minutes to get a table. Unacceptable, IHOP wait staff. Unacceptable. 


No, but seriously. There's a lot of highlighter on me. I should go take care of that. 


Hm. I also have homework to do today. Gah. I hate homework. Also, I'm really tired. Did I mention that? I just spelled 'that' wrong...SHUT UP GOOGLE CHROME!! I WAS NOT TRYING TO SPELL THREE. WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO FREAKING DUMB ALL THE TIME, GOOGLE CHROME?


Maybe I should download Firefox. That'd show Google Chrome who's boss. 


I'm arguing with an internet server. That shows you about where I'm at right now. 


Okie dokie. And yes, Google-Freaking-Evil-Chrome corrected that too. But, yeah, I'm going to go take a shower. There's highlighter on me.


Danielle Out. 

Day Twenty-Seven of College: Being Depressing is a Special Skill

Today...


I hate Ball State's wireless internet. Seriously. It takes, like, three hours for three minutes of video to load. I've yelled at my computer nine times today. On the bright side, I've downloaded Google Chrome on my Mac. Let the hilarious misspelling mishaps ensue. 


Anyway...college. Contrary to popular belief, not all of it is spent partying. Saturday and Sunday and most of Friday...I will admit that not much gets done at those times. But, Monday through Thursday...there are classes. And they expect us to LEARN. Ugh. Learning. Learning is for people who got 1910s or lower on their SATs (ahem...not me). 


Today in English, a class that I despise with a great passion, we were instructed to craft a resume. I filled out the education, work experience and the extracurriculars with no problems. Psh...that resume was pretty awesome from my perspective. At least, it was until I reached the special skills portion. That was when I realized that I have NO SPECIAL SKILLS. I can't speak a different language (made up or otherwise). I can't do karate. I can't even ski. Or say no to a third helping of steak or pumpkin pie. NO SKILLS. NO SKILLS AT ALL.


Well, not unless you count my ability to say the pledge of allegiance in latin (in my deep and soothing radio voice nonetheless) or my talent of describing mundane events with an astonishing amount of wit and clarity. That and the fact that I am very, very good-looking. 


(I wonder if statements like that are the reason that I have no friends.... Nah, that can't be it. I'm awesome. Everybody else is just intimidated. Right...that's why I spent most of the day curled up in a corner listening to the song "I Can't Make You Love Me" on repeat and crying. That's totally why.)


But, anyway, nobody seems to take me and my special skills seriously. Would it help if I told you I can eat ten saltine crackers at one time without any water? No? It figures. All the useful skills that I have and no one takes me seriously. 


This is madness. 


Absolute madness. 


Can you say the pledge of allegiance in Latin? Can you even spell allegiance? (it's okay...I couldn't either. Google Chrome corrected it to many outlandish and impractical things. No time for that now.) Can you be very very good-looking? I didn't think so.


I have to go. "I Can't Make You Love Me" is starting again and I feel a fresh wave of tears coming on. Oh, the pains of being a teenage girl. 


Danielle Out.

12 Days Until College: Fictional Adulterers

Today...


began at IHOP. At midnight. Does midnight count as part of today, blog-wise? Eh, whatever. But, I had IHOP at midnight today/yesterday. At the time it seemed like a fabulous idea. Now, I doubt that the idea was so fabulous. I ate all of my food and most of the other people's food as well...so unless pancakes now burn calories...I ate enough to feed a small African village. Perhaps two small African villages. Depends what sort of African villages we're talking about, honestly.
      Anyhow...moving on from third-world-countries onto more first-world issues...I bought my books for college today. And those suckers cleared out my bank account pretty darn quick. Apparently, in addition to charging enough in tuition to build a castle for the African villagers, Ball-stupid-State needs to make sure that my accumulated debt lasts at least into my mid-fifties by jacking up book prices nine billion percent.
    If I live to be fifty.
   Which is probably a more likely possibility if I stop eating IHOP at midnight.
    Huh.
    And also, they're BOOKS for crying out loud. I probably won't even, like, use them. I am functionally illiterate. Also, Google Chrome just auto-corrected my incorrect spelling of the world illiterate into 'adulterer.' Seriously Google Chrome...get your mind out of the biblical gutter. I am in no way a functional adulterer. Lord, it just corrected functional in 'fictional'. You're making this too easy, Google Chrome. Fictional adulterers? REALLY? 
    And now I want pancakes. Then again, when don't I want pancakes? When I'm a fictional adulterer, that's when. Which isn't now...or ever. Riiight? (Google Chrome just corrected that into, not right, but righto. Apparently, righto is probably what I was trying to spell. Probably.)
      Wow, that was something...I picked on African villagers, didn't I? African villager mockery is the last resort of the imaginatively bankrupt, if you didn't know. Which is something that I am. 
     I am writing about pancakes after all. And college. And fictional adulterers. 
    Groundbreaking. 


   Danielle out.