Drug Trafficking and YOU

Greetings, blog readers. So...it's been a while.

Like a couple of months. I've been busy.

Don't look at me like that...I have. I've been doing so many productive things and making so many friends....

Okay, okay, you caught me.

I bought an xbox.

So...technically I have been busy. Just not busy in a positive way. Unless you count playing Skyrim for like 8 hours a day as a positive way to be busy.

Moving on...my video game playing has led to some crazy escapades. And by crazy escapades, I mean me injuring myself while doing something stupid. Again.

All I was trying to do was hang up a kickass Batman poster because my room was boring (it's not boring anymore. Now it has a kickass Batman poster). So, I was doing that. Just chilling in my room and standing on a desk and hanging up my poster. I got it all stuck to the wall and I was like, "yeah! this Batman poster looks awesome! no more crime for my room, no sir!"

So, I was all excited and whatnot. I was going to hop off my desk, head downstairs and get some celebratory grape jello. That didn't happen. I jumped from my desk to my bed...and it all went downhill from there. See, I can't jump very far in real life. In video games, I'm a world-class jumper. I could jump the crap outta any jump-related situation. In real life, not so much. Long story short, one of my legs ended up on the bed and the other ended up on the floor. I inadvertently did the splits and suddenly walking wasn't really in the cards for me.

I've been limping around like some sort of demented pirate for the past two weeks. It's made my walking class rather difficult.

That's just one of the wacky and depressing things I've been up to. I also had the stomach flu on Thanksgiving and dressed as Batgirl some more. So...you know. Average Danielle-type things that I've been doing.

Right now, I'm in class. Criminology to be precise. My professor sucks. A lot. Today we're talking about cocaine trafficking and prostitution. Fun topic, right? WRONG! She's making it SO BORING!

How does one make prostitution and cocaine boring? I don't know! It's like a recipie for fun and debauchery! Or a kickass movie! It should be like Scarface up in here and instead I'm so effing bored that I'm stabbing myself in the leg with a pencil just to stay awake.

I should really be teaching this class instead. I'd wear my Batsuit and bring in a real live prostitute for the students to look at (don't touch...they bite!). I really am so much better at things than most people.

Gah, I should go.

I've probably got lead poisoning from all the pencil-leg-stabbing I've done.

So, if I die in the next few hours...that's probably why.

I'm Drunk (With Knowledge)

Happy homecoming weekend! Or something! I don't know...merry homecoming weekend? Have a good homecoming? I'm very bad at social situations. I don't really know the protocol for wishing someone a good...well...joyous homecoming. 

Like all the cool kids, I am spending homecoming weekend not at the football game and not getting drunk/tailgating. I'm in the library. With my equally as cool sister. I actually did homework and stuff. It got to feeling a bit too productive...hence the blogging. And pintrest-ing. I spend far too much time on pintrest. I have twenty bucks in the bank. I can't buy anything I pin. I can't even buy food. 

I had to cancel my netflix subscription. 

It was a dark day indeed. 

And who do I have to thank for my current poverty? (Aside from my teacher parents, inability to win the lottery and refusal to get a new job) The financial aid office, that's who. 

They're seriously the worst. First, they make me feel terrible for being poor. And, as you know, I did not choose the thug life. The thug life chose me, financial aid office. After they're done berating me for being poor, they put me on hold. FOR HOURS. Seriously. I think they all went to lunch and laughed about it one time. 

I can't go to lunch. I have no money to buy lunch. AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, FINANCIAL AID OFFICE. 

Ball State really should pay me to go here. I give them so much good press, what with my positively-themed blogging and all. (But, really. My college is the worst college. Except at being drunk. We're all super good at that.) 

So, with a school full of hookers and drunkards...is it really surprising that I avoid homecoming just as fervently as I avoid having a boyfriend? 

The difference is...only one of those things is a choice. 

Whatever. It's cool. I'm probably really bad at it anyway. I'll just becoming a nun. Or a velociraptor. 

Don't ask me how I'd become a velociraptor. I have ways. 

I should go. We ordered a pizza and I can always count on melty cheese and cardboard-y crust to temporarily fill the hole inside me where the love is supposed to go. 

Oh, I jest. 

...but seriously. My school is the worst. 

Ways to Avoid Studying and Help the Blind

I have a criminology test tomorrow that I should be studying for. Therefore...blog time! 

I really should study thought. Criminology is a class that I never, ever pay attention in. It's not my fault, though. The professor is probably the worst lecturer ever. Seriously. Watching cartoons for an hour would probably be more informative. Or listening to the lecture in German or something, I don't know. I do know that she, my professor, likes to copy things word for word from our book onto powerpoint slides in point 12 font and read them to us. Word for word.

If we were a class full of blind people, then that would be awesome. As it is, we only have one blind person in the class and, while I'm sure he's getting a lot out of it, the rest of us can read those slides faster than she can and with fewer pronunciation errors. 

It's usually cool, though. 

I'm just on pintrest the whole time pinning things to my two wedding boards. Yes, I know I'm perpetually single. It's not weird that I have two wedding boards and no boyfriend to love me. I just want to wear a pretty dress and have a whole day where everyone is required to look at me. 

Shut up. 

Anyway, my latest attempt to learn another language has been foiled. I guess I can add Japanese to the pile of languages I tried and failed to learn. That pile already has Latin, French, Russian, Farsi, Pig Latin, Elvish and Spanish three times. I seriously hate myself for being unable to speak anything but english. And I don't even speak english well. 

I think the language-learning part of my brain had to be discarded to make room for all the awesomeness that I just naturally contain. That or it was broken during the "stroke-like- event" that I had last year. 

That was fun. 

Ugh. My notes from my criminology class are just sitting here, staring at me. Get off my back, criminology notes! I'm busy right now! 

Okay, so other class that I hate is walking. You're probably shaking your head and saying something like, "Walking? Really, Danielle? I knew you were impressively lazy, but are you really going to complain about walking class?" 

You don't even know. 

You don't even know what I'm going through. I never knew that people could walk so fast. It's like...sprint-walking or something. I keep almost tripping over my abnormally large feet. (cool story...I had to buy my new shoes in the men's section. They're a size 11...in mens. That's like a 13 in women's.) 

You'd think that having freak-feet would make walking long distances easier. Lies. They just make you flat-footed so you have to stomp around the place like an arthritic godzilla. Or a heavy-set camel. Or an obese third-grader. Or a fish that spontaneously grew stumpy legs. 

So, yeah. My feet. They're stupid. 

Also, I think that my fitness teacher has decided to make me her "project." Like, if she encourages me enough, I will spontaneously become an expert at fitness walking. I'm sorry, but that is not going to happen. My feet will always be big and stupid and I will always be lazy and unmotivated to do anything but watch netflix and eat pizza. 

Mmmm...pizza. 

Pizza bagel bites are awesome, by the way. Not that it has anything to do with anything...but the fact still stands. Pizza bagels kick ass. 

This blog feels fairly boring. Sorry. I can't accidentally sexually harass boys every week. Somebody might get wise and report me to university PD. 

Ha...like they're real cops of something. Plus, I'm a criminal justice major. We're all on the same team, bros. 

I should go. My criminology notes beckon. 

Sociology for Dummies

So, I'm thinking of starting a new blog (or at least retitling this one.) My new/renamed blog would be called Weird Places I, Danielle L Renckly, Fell Asleep and Also Why Does My Hall Have So Many Damn Fire Drills?

It's a working title. 

But seriously. Those two things combined basically comprise my entire life at college so far this year. For one, the sleeping in weird places should really not be an issue. I have a single dorm and two sets of furniture. Two beds, two chairs, four perfectly good places to nap!  

Apparently, whatever instinct controls my sleeping habits would beg to differ. A list of the places I have fallen asleep in the last two weeks is as followed: 

the floor, the floor, the floor again, the shower, the floor, under my bed, the floor, the floor, the shower again, the floor, inside a box, the floor, the floor and, oh guess what? THE FREAKING FLOOR. 

For some reason, I keep waking up on the floor of my dorm. Sometimes I'll wake up on the floor and not remember how I got there. 

You know, this all plays pretty well into my "I'm secretly a werewolf" theory. 

But, moving on to the fire drill thing. I've been at school for about a month now. Four weeks. Not that long. In that time, my stupid building has been through four fire drills. That is literally a drill per week. Not, of course, that they've been spaced out that nicely. No, they happen without warning at the most inopportune times. Like at midnight. Or when it's storming in a torrential fashion. Or when I was very busy watching the Vampire Diaries, thank you very much! 

Stupid college. 

Speaking of stupid college, I had a test in Sociology today. 

It did not go well.

 Have you ever read something that was in English, or whatever language you happen to speak natively, and have just not understood it? Like even a little bit? 

That had never happened to me before this morning. And let me tell you...it was terrible. Awful. I almost cried. I was taking my exam and I looked at the first question and I...

I...

I DIDN'T GET IT. 

It said something along the lines of "looking from the perspective of Muller's theory on differential association, how does the ruling class assure its hegemony through constructing and diffusing a proper ideology of crime?" 

Ummmm...yes? 

 Is this what stupid people feel like all the time? IS IT? 

I feel like I'm in Latin/Spanish/Math class all over again. I hate being not awesome at things. 

And with that improper segue...(spelled that word right on the first try, I did) 

I'm currently in mourning. I've had a dear friend fall gravely ill. And by dear friend I mean my macbook and by gravely ill I mean it decided that it wanted to stop turning on. 

My computer is quite the hipster. Apparently, working when I needed it to work was too mainstream. Now, I'm stuck doing all my homework/facebook stalking/blog typing on a computer in the library. When I am struck with my own hilariousness and start to laugh like a moron, the people all stare at me.

Peasants. They're all jealous of my overwhelming awesomeness.

But, seriously...I know nothing at all about computers. I know that they're the special magic boxes that let me watch my shows and type my snark-tastic blogs, but that's pretty much it. So, my attempts to fix my lovely macbook began and ended at hitting it, yelling at it and then cussing it out. 

So, I'm probably going to need to contact a professional. 

I'm gonna go stand outside the library and stop the first dweeb in a Doctor Who shirt. Sound plan, I think. 

I'll let you know how it all pans out.

Hell is Other People (And Big Feet)

Hey there...Danielle in Sociology class here.

I'm so bored. So, the other day my biology professor just said that there's "no way to escape learning." For one, that sounds rather frightening. Are you going to hunt me down and force me to read a textbook at gunpoint?

 "You will learn, defiant student!" 

"No, no, please! Anything but that! Anything but learning!" 

"Learn or I shoot!" 

"Give me ignorance or give me death!"

 Two, I so totally can. Haha, I defy you, biology professor! I should be listening to the lecture...instead I'm writing a devilishly amusing blog! Learning, ha...school is for chumps.

So...my ongoing quest for college-friends has hit another tiny bump. This bump, unlike the others, is not due to my undeserved sense of superiority or my unwillingness to ever leave my room. This bump is made entirely of social awkwardness. And also feet. 

It happened this morning. I was on my way to class, listening to my music, just as chill as you please. I was like a normal human for five seconds almost. Then I tripped over my stupid feet. A boy who was walking near me glanced over and said something along the lines of "are you okay?" 

Now this is the point where most normal humans would nod and laugh or thank the kind stranger who had taken in interest in their present predicament. Not me. Nope. I will not settle for normal, comfortable social interaction. Instead I shouted the words, "Big Feet!" at him. 

Smooooth. 

I do have fairly large feet. They're size 12. My feet are not petite. When he looked confused and a little embarrassed, I decided to do the idiotic thing and keep talking. "I have big feet...I was, I was talking about my feet. They making walking a rather difficult endeavor." 

When he remained silent, I assumed that I should keep going. "Yeah...so I was talking about my feet. Not your feet. All thought, you know what they say about guys with big feet!" 

Once time travel is invented, I am using it to go back to that moment and shoot myself. I'm not kidding. 

Keep in mind, that I had headphones in for all of this so I was practically shouting these things. It was suuuuper. 

After an awkward half-bow half-curtsy deal, I scrambled up and used my big feet to get the hell out of there. So...that was my Tuesday.

Anyway, I've updated my blog. It's now DDB 2.0 (Danielle's Depressing Blog Two-Point-Oh). No gonna lie...it's pretty bitching. (I'm going to bring back the word bitching. I feel like it's going fairly well at this point.)

So...this school's temperatures are Dante's Inferno-themed today. My dorm room is literally the hottest place I have ever been. My Bio class is about the same temperature. But my sociology class decided that it was going to be different. My Bio class decided to be the ninth circle of hell today. For those of you not in the know, that means that my bio class (and the ninth circle of Danielle-hell) is really, really, really cold.

Also, Judas might be here. I don't know yet.

How am I supposed to dress for these ever-fluctuating temperatures? Wear short shorts and a parka? Snow pants and a tank top? 

Maybe the hipster I saw the other day with jeans, no shirt and a beanie had the right idea. Ha, as if. Hipsters never have the right idea. Expect being hit by buses. That's a right idea, all you hipsters out there. Think of the volume of people who get hit by buses. Not very high, right? Right. So, you'd be super un-mainstream. 

You're welcome, world. Thanks to me, Danielle L Renckly, there are no more hipsters. They were all hit by buses...and died. 

I should go...there are probably a dozen or so people left on campus who I haven't made uncomfortable yet. That needs to be remedied.

The Adventures of The Snark: The Sarcastic Crusader

Hey there, blog lovers. 

 

(That makes you all sound weird. Sorry.)

 

 

So...I'm bored. Once again, I am at work, failing to sell lawn mowers. Who cares? Lawn mowers are stupid. When the zombies rise up, no one is going to care about lawn mowers.

 

Though those really big ones with the giant blades would make pretty good weapons. Hmmm. This is an idea. Me with my lawn mower and maybe a machete of some kind. Suck it, zombies! I'm the white, female version of Will Smith! You'll never get me!

 

Ha, we know that's not true. I'd be dead after five minutes in a zombie apocalypse. Or I'd be the one to start the zombie apocalypse by inadvertently knocking over a vat of zombie-juice or something. I don't know. This example got unexpectedly long and rambling.

 

Still, using lawn mowers to kill zombies. My idea. If that pops up on The Walking Dead or in a crappy horror movie, I'm suing. Intellectual property and all that.

 

Anyway, I'm back up to Muncie next week. Back to the land of me having no friends and also an unfortunate abundance of majors. I'm Criminal Justice right now. I honestly have no idea how that happened or why I thought it was a good idea. My skill set of being snarky and lying on a couch watching The Vampire Diaries does not go well with a career in bringing justice to criminals.

 

Though I would like to be a superhero. I could wear a cape and call myself The Snark (again, intellectual property of Danielle L Renckly). Would I have a superpower? Nah...Batman doesn't have superpowers. And Batman is badass.

 

Evildoers beware the Sarcastic Crusader!

 

Yes. I'm going to get my criminal justice degree and somehow use it to become The Snark/female-Batman. I'll be the hero that the greater Indianapolis area deserves...but not the one that it needs.

 

Or maybe I'll just change my degree to glass blowing. Or have a nervous breakdown. All three are equally as likely at this point.

 

So, yeah. That's where I'm at right now.

 

Also, we're t-minus (or teeth-minus) 5 days to shark week.

 

I love shark week. I've covered it before here, but you really cannot understand my depth of affection for it. I'm not being hipster-y and ironic. I genuinely love shark week. I follow it on Twitter. (P.S. I got a twitter. Follow me!)

 

I don't know what it is. It's just the best week of the whole year. And thankfully I have a single dorm this year so I can watch my Shark Week in undisturbed peace.

 

 

Except for, you know, school and all that.

 

Anyway, I should go. These lawn mowers aren't going to not sell themselves. (Double negative! Ick...but whatever) Wait...wait just a second...these lawn mowers are going to not sell themselves!

 

Haha!

 

But really.

 

I should go. My boss keeps walking by and glaring at me. I keep doing cross-eyes at him though, so that might be part of it.

 

Sigh. I miss Hot warehouse boy Ethan.

 

Later.

 

-The Snark (aka, Danielle)

Tales from Fort Danielle

So…Danielle here.

Let’s admit it. I’ve been lax this summer. There have been no blogs. No blogs at all.

But, come on…lawn mowers don’t sell themselves (I, in fact, don’t do so well selling them either. That’s a thing lawn mowers and I have in common, apparently.)

But, I’m bored.

And I’m out of things to do again. Out of all the things. And now I have…let’s see…four and a half hours to kill. AND NOTHING TO KILL THEM WITH. I’ve worn out the sword that was busy work. I have done all the busy work. I am no longer busy.

This is TERRIBLE.

Four more days of work, people. 32 more hours (well, 36.5 hours if you count the rest of today.). 2,190 more minutes to kill.

DIE, MINUTES DIE!

Well, I suppose I could go ask my supervisor if she has anything else for me to do…

Nah. I’ll probably just take some old invoices and make more paper airplanes. I’ve gotten rather good at paper airplanes this summer.

In fact, my paper airplanes are bitchin.

So, be jealous. I’ve wasted my whole summer and only got a lot of money and bitchin paper airplanes out of it.

So, moving on to some unfortunate tidings.

I’ve had to decommission Fort Danielle.

It was a sad day. Hot warehouse boy named Ethan went back to Illinois to be with his fiancée (she’s ugly. I bet she’s ugly).

See, Hot warehouse boy named Ethan was really the whole reason Fort Danielle came to exist. See, I saw hot warehouse boy named Ethan and hid in the top part of the warehouse to watch him and his sexy, sexy self. As the days passed, I created a fort with boxes, broken file cainets and an unused go-kart. It had a chair and a box for foot-resting and a peep hole for Ethan-stalking.

It was a dream. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Ethan thought my name was Jennifer. Seriously. Like, the first day we met he waved and said "See you tomorrow, Jennifer!" I was so amazed that he acknowledged me that I kinda didn't bother correcting him on the whole my-name-is-Danielle-not-

Jennifer bit.

And they say it's not good manners to correct your future husband anyway. So, it kinda spiraled out of control from there. I would go out of my way to keep people from addressing me as Danielle (you know, my name) in front of hot warehouse boy Ethan.

It got real complicated real fast.

I would have changed my name to Jennifer if we got married. Seriously. And I don't even like that name.

Anyway. Ethan's gone now, back in Illinois with his one-eyed, acne-faced finacee. So I no longer have to fear my name. I was thinking about pulling a Voldemort. Going by an intimidating moniker. She-who-should-not-be-poked or something. I dunno.

God, I'm tired. This job requires like an hour of driving to get to and the day starts at 8 for me, so I have to wake up at 6. It's like high school. Only with lawn mowers.

I fell asleep at my desk the other day. I mean, I doze sometimes, but this was hardcore sleeping. I was out. I may have snored. I don't know. I did drool. I know because the expense reports I was supposed to be filing were sticking to my face.

Anyway, my least favorite office mate walked by my office. I sprang up from the desk and shouted "I HAVE A HEADACHE!" in my best project-around-the-whole-

auditorium voice from high school. 

My whole office was actuely, painfully aware that I, Danielle L Renckly, had a headache, dammit. I was not going to stand for this. I was going to shout about it and make sure eveyone else had a headache too.

Thing is, I didn't have a headache. My head felt fine. My head was awesome. I have no idea why my subconcious mind thought the best thing to shout at that particular moment was "I have a headache!"

It's okay if you don't understand. I don't and neither did the rest of my office. For the rest of the day, they all treated me like a bomb that might shout mean words at them if they looked at me funny. They don't seem to realize I'm like that all of the time.

Anyway, I should. This blog has sucessfully managed to gobble a half hour of my life.

36 left.

...I could write 72 more blogs...

No.

No.

Be strong.

Okay.

Jennifer...ahem...Danielle Out.