Accidents happen everyday. Just today, riding in the passenger seat while my mother was driving I saw my life flash before my eyes many times as my mom sped and swirved, barely stopped at any of the correct signals which normally signified a cease in forward motion, and opted to drive to the other side of the mall instead of walking. We did not hit anyone, but if we had I am pretty sure you could not claim that to be an accident; it would be inevitable. But regardless, with my inpending trip creeping up closer and closer like a pedifile on the school yard I cannot help but become cautious of my own morality.

I am not saying that something will happen; this is a "just in case" clause. Don't consider this a living will, because if you need to rely on it; I won't be living anymore. But also I do not plan on giving away any of my worldy possessions. I want to make sure that if some horrible gasoline accident occurs and I end up a picture on the news, I have left nothing unsaid. Thinking about that, I am worried what picture my parents would give to the local news crew covering the crash. If they went through my computer and picked a random picture of me, the last picture the public sees of me could be when I drunkenly stumbled down the stairs at college. RIP Dave MacPherson: 'Don't worry, he was probably too drunk to feel a thing."

On with the things not to be left unsaid:
1. To my college friends: I was actually a plant by the goverment trying to bust a large illegal arms dealer at our school. After four years I am closer than ever in obtaining the evidence needed to him away forever. Everything about me was a lie. I am sorry to have had to decieve all of you, but that arms runner was one of my roommates and I had to convince him I was just any other college student. Ya know, thinking about it, if I do not parish in an unsightly vat of acid the government is going to be pretty pissed I posted all this information on the internet.

2. I employ the entire cast of Saturday Night Live to write my material for me. Everything from my humor columns to scripting out and paying off all of the people I do improv with to make it seem like its all spontaneous. That is also the reason SNL sucks nowadays. If they did not have to spend all of their time and creative energy making me the humor genious I am that show would be better than Everybody Loves Raymond. And I do not have to tell you how great that would be.

3. I believe that when I call someone from another time zone that I am successfully communicating with someone in another realm of time. When I talk to my friend from Wisconsin, I try not to tell her the results from sports games or any events of great signifigance so when she experiences them an hour later her head will not implode. Its not a scene you forget when a pretty girl's head caves in on itself at a miraclous rate. I'm sorry Patty, your sacrifice has saved countless others.

4. I'm not really a big fan of ham. To all of those people out there who think I am some advocate for the new rise of ham, I must step down as your leader. I enjoy it with spicy mustard, but spicy mustard is the ranch dressing of condiments; if you smother enough of it on you will be be able to choke down anything. It started when I was young but my mother always insisted that I liked ham and today I am finally putting my foot down. I dislike ham! Take that mom! Maybe I'm just Jewish...

5. I do not care who this will upset, but The Da Vinci Code ripped off Dogma. Besides having to stick up for my hometown boy Kevin Smith, if you look at the stories they are very similar and if I'm not mistaken, Dogma came out a number of years before Dan Brown published Da Vinci. Decendants of Jesus, I mean christ who thought that would be original the second time around. Like we would not notice the blatant plagurism. Nice try, Mr. Brown, for your next book why don't you write about a boy going through wizard school who has to struggle with growing up too fast than anyone should have to. Then why don't let Ron Howard make movie out of that, and cast a girl with a lot of hot potential as the lead female role so we can stalk her and lie to our friend's saying, "She's got that little sister cute" instead of "Yea, I'd totally hit that if the law wouldn't catch me!" and then someone would send her letters everyday, EVERY DAY, hoping for that one day when she writes him back a letter so he could smell her on the paper... Yea, why don't you try that?

6. It really bugs me that everyone can now talk while still having an away message up on AIM. Is it such a big deal that the kid from high school who IMs you every time you pull it down wastes 30 seconds of your life a day wondering who you were with when he followed you out of the gym? Soon enough he's going to catch on and you will have no escape from him at all. Another gripe I have is those people who do not go idle because they do not want stalkers. If you do not want stalkers stop being so damn pretty and maybe start a conversation with me while I rub up against you in on the bus instead of moving to another seat. We are social creatures, these boundries keep us from our natural instincts.

I think that's about all I care to disclose. Everything else I am taking to the grave. Catch you in the afterlife bitches.

Before movies get presented to the general public they are screened throughout the country to see if people will like them. This is before they put out any trailers, before posters are thrown up in theaters, even before they decide on the final title. They basically finished shooting last week, threw it together and need some feedback. I was hoping to see some previews for movies still being filmed or maybe 2 1/2 minutes of a guy typing up a script on his computer; but no such luck. What I did get was a Pulp Fiction meets Napolean Dynomite film featuring Carl Weathers, the raddest f**king actor ever and a free movie pass that I will not be able to use for the next two weeks.

I am galavanting away to my villa in Europe for the next two weeks. Ok, replace "galavanting" to "being bored out of my mind for 8 hours on a plane" and "villa" to "Jeanette and Isa's house" and you've got yourself a vacation. Well, you've got yourself my vacation, so get your own, jerk. I have never left the country so you would think I am overly joyed to be exploring the world, and to an extent I am. But then there's another part of my mind that is not sure what the rest of the world that New Jersey can't? I am 10 minutes away from the beach, and what's the difference between the Mediterrian Sea and the NJ Coastline? Sure, our beaches have ugly old people, and you never see ugly old people on TV over in Europe but that's because they all smoke. It weeds out all the old people before the age of 45, and then they just stone the ugly ones. Its true, I saw it on Discovery Channel. I for one choose freedom.

But I am concerned about one thing that might make me do something which will cause the headline "Crazy American Lives Up to Violent Stereotype in Stockholm: Heavy Metal Music to Blame?" For the last few weeks I have spent my days in a rigorous routine or watching as much of the World Cup as I can during the day and doing anything of merit at night. And I am alotted the time to do this in the good old USA, but once I travel across that big puddle I am going to be completely thrown off. World Cup games in the prime time? Now I like soccer as much as the next guy who chuckles at everyone else in the world calling it football, but it has no place taking up my evenings! I mean, gah! Look the only soccer player Americans know is David Beckham because he married a Spice Girl and there was that crappy movie no one saw. Face it, we're a Nascar Nation that can't be bothered with running for 45 minutes without a break. Seriously, I get winded just watching it.

I really hope this vacation is not a total wash. I do not know what Sweden has to offer a guy like me, though my sister got me a book with more pictures in it then a menu from Denny's; I am still skeptical. Its a country full of skinny, blonde haired, blue eyed girls; I just do not know how I will fill all the time in my day. And then jumping down to Spain for a week, two blocks off the Meditterian Sea? A lot of people say great things about Europe, maybe I will have an unexplainably amazing time and decide not to leave. I will find myself a Spanish lady, wear shirts unbuttoned down to my belt line, grow a skinny mustache and smoke huge cigars wearing huge sunglasses looking on my yacht. I have not figured out how I will fund this all yet, but I am pretty sure selling children is legal in Europe. Its true, I saw it on the Discovery Channel.

Chapter 9:
After further examination the hair on my toes hurts more if plucked than does hair from anywhere else on my body. I wonder why this is and perhaps it is because our toes enable us to balance and if we are ever in a life endangeringly cold situation then this hair will keep our toes from freezing and allow us to find shelter from the elements. Or perhaps our toes are the actual intelectual center for our bodies and not our minds and this hair is our only way of experiencing the outside world. Or maybe its just hair on our god damn toes and people should stop thinking too much about 'what the world really means'

Chapter 10:
The weather is getting nicer. Nearly everyday when I walk outside I choose to do so without a coat. This weather reminds me of summer. Summertime, a time of freedom for children still in school, but now its just a time when I sweat more at my desk. If only I could bottle my persperation for when we run out of water. Its going to happen sooner than we think; and I, for one, will be ready for it. I will have bottles upon bottles in my basement for the Great Dry Out of 2013. People scoff at my ideas now, but when the times comes they will be the first ones in line to buy a jar of salty sustinence.

Chapter 11:
I am repaying my friends, sitting in on their presentations. As the minutes tick by I feel my brain cells committing hara-kiri, not because their research was bad but because I do not want to be here. Were these thoughts going on through their heads when I was presenting last semester? I pictured myself as a powerful mountain goat of a man on top of the universe spewing hot wads of information down on those below. Much like Zeus hurling lightning bolts from Mt Olympus, the halo of light that surrounded me during the downfall of knowledge from my heaving, buldging pectorials of brain power only emphasized how truely great what I brought to them was. At least, that's how I thought my presentation went.

Chapter 12:
Pool parties are fun. They are the pinnecal of the ultimate summertime activity. The pool is the equilizer in any game, be it volleyball or basketball. But then there's Marco Polo, the only game on the market thought of by the Prince of Darkness himself. Sometimes matches could go on for hours as I blindly search for my quiet commrades who would spend all but a few short oxygen sucking seconds underwater. Those bastards. My cry of 'marco!' would be answered by silent jeers and the screams of the pool filter filling the air. Once I felt something brush against me and, in my excitement, I clasped my hands onto my new found prey. I open my eyes proclaiming my victory to reveal to myself that I, the great hunter, had my hands around the automatic pool skimmer. Technology will be the death of society.

Chapter 13:
Driving around today I made a right hand turn. This is a regular occurance when I'm driving but this turn was different. I was steering with my right hand because my left arm was busy hanging out the window. Driving with one arm out the window is one of those things they told us about when they split up gym classes in 6th grade; its a necessity for guys. But to abide to proper driving regultaions I went to turn on my turn signal and took my right hand off the wheel then penetrated through to reach the lever on the left side of my dashboard. I did not think of the consequences if a group of small school children had suddenly ran out into the street after a ball; I was careles. As an afterthough I could used bicycle turn symbols, but hindsight is always 20/20.

Chapter 14:
Every movie nowadays seems to be based on a true story. I thought we went to the movies to escape from out lives and see two hours of fantasy. This makes me wonder if every movie out there is based on true stories. That would make Honey, I Shrunk the Kids a horrible example of child abuse, but raises questions as well. Was he legally obligated to alert the authorities about what happened to his children? They never actually left the property. And don't ants travel in lines and packs? How come they only ran into one? And who the hell has poisonous scorpians occupying their backyard? I don't who the real Dr. Szalinski is, but I hope he gets whats coming to him.

Chapter 15:
Walking around with so many things going on its sometimes hard to find time to stop and smell the roses. But I'm starting to think even if I did have the time; say I was walking aimlessly around looking for entertainment, I would not stop to smell the roses. Sure, they smell pretty, but once you've smelt one have you not smelt them all? And how much time is that really going to take? Hell, if there was a strong wind you wouldnt even need to stop, you could just inhail deeply as you walk by. And what about someone in my position. I'm allergic to bees, and roses are frequented by bees quite often for pollination purposes. I can't blame anyone but nature for that, but in this Charles Darwin world it may be foolish for me to take the time to stop and take a big whiff of rose. I live on the edge as much as the next guy, but sometimes you need to keep walking.

A couple of weeks ago my buddy Sam had an away message up that said, "I wanna write a book. It will be about only what I see on a regular basis." So I took it upon myself to start writing chapters and samples from this book. There will more than on entry on the Book of Everyday Things, so let's start in the beginning...

Chapter 1:
I walked to class today and saw a squirell run across the ground. I wonder to myself if this is the same squirell I saw the previous day and occasionally over the course of the semester. Is he the breadwinner of the family?Does he go home to his tree at night to three hungry mouths and a nagging wife? Perhaps his life is not as glamourous as nut gathering and sitting in trees. Perhaps we have squirells all wrong. Perhaps his life sucks and he is just going through the process. Every day when he is about to leave his favorite branch he takes a deep breathe and leaps down to dodge cars and interested college kids and thinks to himself 'just another day at the office.'

Chapter 2:
While giving the person my card to swipe to get into the cafeteria I passed it to her the way I always do, so she is able to swipe it from that exact angle without having to spin the card. I think its important that I put this effort into her day but she seems not to notice. Not once has anyone ever said "Thank you for being considerate." I do not know why I still do it. Probably because heroes should not need recognition. I can make her day without her giving me the credit I deserve. But it still makes me angry. Just once I would want someone to notice what I do for them. I still steal from my roommate when he is not there, maybe if I stop, he'll thank me.

Chapter 3:
Walking through the halls of an academic building today I noticed a bunch of fliers. They are the same fliers I saw the day before, and the day before that. These events have all happened, why don't people take them down? I refuse to live in the past no matter who is trying to force it down my throat. Sure, the step team's show was amazing, possibily the best time I have had since being born. Those steps were amazing. 3/4 time; epic. God Damn Epic. Maybe one day I will learn to step, but for now I think I am just going to tear down this poster.... no.... perhaps this poster serves a greater purpose. Perhaps it envokes memories for others far greater than my own personal amazment at the step team. I am not the kind of man to keep others from their dreams. I am no god of divine happiness.

Chapter 4:
My pen ran out of ink today and I let the kid behind me borrow my other pen. I am stuck in an awkward decision. I no longer have a writing device, but I have one in my reach, though he is using it. But its my pen, even if I lent it to him I should be able to revoke that privilege of using my propety at any time. Its not my fault he was not prepared for class; and now I am the one who is unprepared. There is a second problem as well. The pen I was using had black ink, the pen I would reposses from this poor soul is blue ink. My notes would be in two different colors on the same topic, nay, on the same sentence. That is unacceptable in normal circumstances but can this be considered normal? I have to make a decision soon, the idea I was jotting down for safe keeping in the my notebook is slipping from my mind. Think! Perhaps I shall let him keep my pen until the end of class and borrow his notes, but that is taking a risk. If he cannot remember to bring a pen to class, are the notes I will get from him of a quality I would find acceptable? This problem has snowballed to massive proportions; one I cannot hope to answer alone. I turn to my neighbor and ask him. He seems annoyed that I have woken him from his nap; I'm all alone on this one. I make my decision and turn around to explain my situation to the tennet of my pen and he graciously gives me my writing instrument back. After class he comes up to me and asks if he could copy my notes from the rest of the class that he missed. That greedy bastard.

Chapter 5:
I was passing by the statue of the blue jay in the gymnasium today and saw that it was a gift from the class of 1986. 20 years ago. It seems in 20 years they would have updated it wouldn't they? I just stood there starring at the statue of the bluejay in attack mode with its wings out and thought how killer it would be if the class of 2006, on its 20th birthday, updated this statue. Instead of painting it, or refurbishing the frame, why don't we put statues of animals behind it that didn't survive the warpath of the fighting blue jay? I'm thinking a rabbit, two raccoons and a god damn polar bear; masicured in cold blood by the ruthless killer that is the Etown bluejay. Each year a new animal in a new form of f**ked-up-ness can be added to show those that stand before us that they only have a short time to live. We would have the most feared mascot in the entire nation. Take that Michigan Wolverines. The janitor asks if I can move because he's buffing the floor to the lobby outside the gym. I look at him and cock my head slightly like a confused dog, does he not understand the gravity of my ideas. For moment we lock eyes and instantly I understand his intentions; it will be much easier to clean up the blood of our enemies from a clean, newly buffed floor. You sir, are a thinker

Chapter 6:
I was eating in the cafeteria today and looked down at my french fries and realized that no one around me had said anything about what was going on later that night. Maybe they are doing something that they do not want me involved with. Normally by this time everyone is talking about their plans for the evening, mostly invovling homework and the occasional game of Scrabble, but overall nothing too interesting, but at least it was something. Not to get too paranoid I pose the question of activities for later in the evening and the usual answers fly up, but for some reason this upsets me. Not one to make a scene I do not bring it up to my comrades but quickly I take my tray up to be disposed of and I see the answer. Someone has left their retainer on a tray. I quickly think who it could belong to, are we made to meet this way... perhaps fall in love... perhaps become mortal enemies. I cannot take that chance. I take the retainer off the tray, drop it on the ground and stomp on it. Take that, I think in my head, and as my gaze rises I see a young girl about the age of 14 with tears in her eyes. I am concerned for her well being and ask her what is wrong. She is inconsolible, who could make such an innocent child cry such great tears? As I walk away the sound of my enemies tooth guard that is caught in the bottom of my sneaker taps on the floor announcing to the world my victory

Chapter 7:
I am standing in line at the Jay's Nest. The line is pretty long, there are at least 5 people standing behind me. I am next to go and I do not know what I want to order. Just go with the chicken ranch cheese steak like last time, but my gut is telling to stare at the menu some more. I only have a matter of seconds until my friend's recipt is done printing and then those piercing blue eyes of the girl behind the counter will find a way to the back of my brain. There is something about those eyes I cannot trust, but they make me crazy to try. I have gotten lost in the moment and its my turn. Those eyes come with a voice. She asks me, 'Is that it?' refering to the bottled water I have sitting in front of me. We both know there is more but only I know the second part is a jigsaw puzzle of my emotions and she is toying around the edges. I make a decision and we part ways after the recipt prints. The five people behind me did not seem to notice the hestitation. What was fifteen seconds to them was an eternity of thoughts and dreams dancing in my head as though her eyes were magic. That chicken ranch cheesesteak was the best I ever tasted that day. Not because of her, but because I decided to add ketchup, and that is never a bad decision.

Chapter 8:
What's up with clouds? .... No, really, what the f**k?

This is why I think I stopped writing. I just wrote out an entire article. It was two sentences away from being done, and I clicked a button on my mouse and it went back a page and I lost everything. Now, this is my new mouse because my old one stopped working correctly in January. And I put up with that mouse for 6 months, constantly dying on me, having to unplug it and plug it back in every 15 minutes, and even taking it apart and using it for 2 months, but I finally broke down. I broke down and I got a new supermouse wireless mouth with 18 more buttons than my last one. The big feature was it could scroll sideways. I have an easier solution to anyone that needs to scroll sideways... the maximize button. That way you only have to scroll up and down like a normal person! This world of convenience just pissed me off so it looks like I'm going to have to take it out on this 7-11 planet.

It been about a month since I last sat down to write, but I decided to get back on the horse, but its really not that easy with writing. You see it everyday in movies. A retired hitman gets called up to do "one last job" and then after a mission which almost gets him and everyone he's ever met killed, decides to get back into the life because he's signed a three movie deal. With writing I simply can't just kill a man and then eat his soul for power, I've tried, you only get two or three good columns from that before it wears out. (Thank you anyway Scott Adams)

But sparatically the other day while gardening with my parents I got inspired and decided to try to get back on writing thing. Now with everything, the first couple are going to be rocky but hang with me. And also get on me if there's not something new everyday. Granted, I'll be in Europe for two weeks but I'll be keeping a hand written something to see what happens when Acts of Randomness goes overseas to the world of Blonde Girls and Candy Fish known as Sweden then down to the nudie beaches and Spanish-speaking people that know nothing about tacos in Spain.

I really hope when I'm over in Europe there's a situation where I have to jump into a cab out of breath and yell "Take me to the American Embassy!" That would really make the trip something special.

It is that time of year when seniors like me start doing a lot of “lasts.” We skip our last class, put off doing our last paper, and BS our last presentations. For me, this is the last humor column I will ever write for the Etownian. It was a good three year run and I have had a lot of fun doing it, but I do not want to bore readers with a sappy letter reminiscing about those last few years here. Instead I want to focus on something that people can all relate to; something my readers can rally behind and support; something that will stick with all of you for years to come. That’s right; I’m going to write about how great I am.

Now that I am leaving Etown in two weeks, some of you may feel like shedding a tear, or in some cases, may want to burn the words “Why Dave Why?” into the soccer field. Do not worry, these are perfectly normal emotions to have, in fact, they are encouraged. If at least three girls engulfed in hysterical tears don’t rush the stage at graduation screaming “We love you, please don’t go,” I will feel really hurt.
But do not direct your anger towards me, instead direct it towards the institution because if they would let me stay here without having to take classes or pay tuition I could continue to write for the newspaper; but they have not met my demands and have been forced to exercise my other options (Still waiting to hear from F&M!).

It may be a mistake for me to say that once I walk through the dell on graduation day and receive my diploma that Etown will not be the same, because that may not be a large enough scale to measure how monumental I have been. In lieu of e-cards and macaroni art, please send cash to Dave c/o the “Being Funny Doesn’t Pay the Bills” fund. This has been set up to allow an unfortunate, but deserving and charmingly handsome, young man will be able to continue his lifestyle as the upper rim of celebrity until he finally sells out and starts writing commercials for a major television station.

Do not think of this as the end of a chapter; think of it as the end of a series that has keep you wanting more and without it in your life you will no longer be whole.

I appreciate all of the readers I have acquired over the years whether I know you or not. You gave me the determination to continue to write columns, though never once did I turn it in on time (Editor’s Note: That’s true). I do this for you, thank you. If there’s one piece of advice I want to say, it is this; Humor and confidence will take you many places, but nothing is funnier than the genuine absurdity of life.

Coming into college I was curious who I would meet. Most people are concerned with making friends and fitting in, and I, even though I was destined to be great, was slightly perturbed by this as well. Four years after my first night at college I look back at the group of people I hung out with that night and realize I do not talk to any of them; in fact I think one dropped out and joined up with Barnum and Bailey. As for those that did not choose Clown College in my memories I am left with a plethora of faces and personalities to sift through.

With Etown expanding the school by constructing the new business and science building and the student population steadily growing every year, my pool of people that could be considered friends has grown exponentially and it brings up two questions. The first being how can I construct a way to categorize all my friends on campus, and secondly, are they building a new form or are we permanently converting every lounge, closet, and patio with at least three chairs and a bush into a new dorm room?

The latter is answered somewhere in the “Master Plan” but I have not donated enough money to the school to see the real version; so let us stick to the first question. The first grouping to divide people into is that of a true friend. This is the person you will most likely still talk to after college, their kids will call you Uncle Dave, and sometime down the line you’ll get together and realize it’s just not the same as it was in college, have a complete falling out and accidentally seduce his wife. But he stole her from you junior year so he had it coming anyway!

The next group consists of all the people you talk to on a regular basis, but basically it’s only because there is no one else around to associate yourself with. They are the filler for most of the pictures you take with the first group of friends, and if it comes down to it you will give them a call to go to the caf if no one else is available. You may even live with this type of person, but for the most part you could replace them with a semi-loyal house cat with a 6-pack.

The next group is those people that you accidentally make eye contact with while walking across campus and are forced to awkwardly say hey in passing. There is a 99% chance that you are facebook friends with them and I’m not talking Tim Berger, though it’s a pretty good guess you are facebooked to him as well. This group is useful if you want to sit in the commons and pretend that you are popular by saying hello to every third person on campus. Other than that horribly lame way to make yourself feel better, their only other function is to give you assistance if you are being pursued by a bear. Because, really, how many people are going to let a bear maul a relatively nice guy from their Global Econ class? It is information like that which allows me to sleep at night.

Coming to the end of our tenure at college, we seniors have a lot of decisions to make. We have to apply to different companies, send out resumes, and some how pass those pesky mandatory drug tests. Do we move in with our parents or get a place of our own? This question leads to the reworded question of; do I want to have a nice, warm roof over my mouth or find out what dog food tastes like when cooked over candle light? But before we decide what to do after graduation, the seniors have to decide what to give to the school as a gift; because $120,000+ just is not enough.

Usually the gift is something pretty lame according to the standards of a college student in the year 2006, but maybe it’s a good thing the school does not allow for the class to purchase something to go with the trends of the time. Could you envision walking past the “18th Amendment Pet Store” donated by the class of 1920 and the Bedazzler Room on the second floor of Nicarry donated by the class of ’87? But I think it’s about time we break the tradition of giving the school a new rock garden, or clock, or clock made from rocks because I think we’d have some pretty good ideas, and I never learned how to read a non-digital clock anyway.

But how to determine a good gift that will help the campus for years to come from something that will look oddly out of place in ten years. Sure, one group of people may think it’s a good idea to replace the gymnasium with a replica of The Eliminator from American Gladiators but there may be people that oppose this uproariously awesome and great idea. People have different tastes and I think it is important that we are open to everyone’s idea of a new sign or ripping out comfortable wood benches and putting in cold stone slabs.

The Class of 2006 has a big decision on their hands. And by Class of 2006, I mean about four people sitting in the President’s Office going over a few ideas written out on cocktail napkins stapled together called “The Master Plan.” But regardless of who makes the actual decision, then takes money from the gift budget and gets a new sunroom on their house, there is only one clear choice for a gift this year.

Our beloved friend JG Francis has been sitting alone on his throne of brick and mortar for too long. Perhaps its time we gave him a friend. I think it would only be right if we chose a person whose memory is not soon to fade from the history books as to not date ourselves. Hopefully when I come back for Homecoming next year I’ll be gathered around Alpha Hall with the rest of the returning Alumni from ’06 as they unveil JG’s new bronzed bench buddy; me.

Let's talk, let's update, let's jive a bit. Let's see what happens when I sit down when I'm bored and start writing with nothing in my head except the thought that I don't want to be bored anymore and maybe in the next nine minutes something magical can happen and I can produce something that might be worth posting on the internet. But are there really standards for posting on the internet? I can go into any search engine and type in any phrase from "Purple Rain Philosophy" to "recipe for snickers" and I'll get at least a few hits. And bloggers in the world (when I started we didnt have names, it was called an internet journal). But don't get me started on people that use that term; I mean, you write on the internet so your three friends can read what you have to say and have fake arguments in the comments section. Woo hoo, you're changing the world.

It only takes one person to change the world; as long as he has the money, the drive, and the people around him to get him to the right place. Why are people obsessed with changing the world? I like how the world is. Maybe certain aspects of the world arent so great like being rejected by the hot girl at the 7th grade dance or accidently walking in front of a bus but overall the world is pretty spiffy. Its where I do the things I like to do. Without it, I wouldnt have anywhere to do those things. So the next time you think the world sucks and decide to write it in your blog, how bout you write about something people care about like sunflower seeds.

I never really liked sunflower seeds until this year. No, I'm going to go back on that. I never gave sunflower seeds a proper chance before this year. I never saw a point in working for such a small thing. But then I gave it a shot and came to a new theory; its like waiting in the hallways in order to be in perfect position to open the door for a specific girl; its not about the reward its about the journey. That half hour you spend pretending to wait for a professor to get back from lunch, or rereading the same newspaper article about global warming allows for you to fully plan how you're going to open that door and how you're going to respond. Are you going to give her a smile, perhaps even initiate some kind of conversation or are you going to play it cool and only perk up at the last second like you were preoccupied doing something else and slightly acknowledging with a smirk and a "oh, no problem."

Are you going to be the one that never gave it a shot, or are you going to man up and grab your seeds?

I hit a wall with finding a topic to write about this week and I think it’s because I’m not feeling 100%. Though I have found that when I’m under the weather my writing gets a special twist on it; be it because I’m bewildered at how much mucus my sinuses can hold or the hallucinogenic effect half a bottle of NyQuil has on my system. You know you are going to get sick in college when everyone you see the day before is sniffling or complaining of a sore throat. Dorms are breeding grounds for disease. To prove my point, consider this; not a weekend goes by that someone is not throwing up in the bathroom and then waking up feeling horrible the morning after.

Being sick is never fun. You never see a guy with a glazed over look in his eyes, holding a box of tissues, looking sticky to the touch walk through the student center with an aura of happiness surrounding him. No one has ever busted into song about coming down with Mono. And to my knowledge no one goes out of their way to get some applause after a fun night with a friend. Feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck full of flesh eating amebas just is not a pleasurable experience, and we as college students have to make sure we let everyone we see know how miserable it is to be us.

We might exaggerate a little bit here and there. Maybe we are only burning at 100.3, but 103 is only a decimal point off. It might not be accurate to say it feels like I swallowed a lit piece of charcoal, but my throat does tickle in a not too comfortable manner. And sure, I may not be on my death bed, with only a matter of hours to live, and I might have been a bit premature signing away all my worldly possessions, but I ran out of tissues, was running low on Halls, and I had sneezed seven times in a row. Three more times and I would have died instantly; that’s a fact.

Why do we do that? Because we’re sick and fragile and if we lay on the couch all day no one is going to come by and pamper us like when we were little; but we will try our hardest to find someone willing.

When you go to the zoo the animals are separated into different cages. The monkeys usually have their own house appropriately deemed “The Monkey House” and the tigers get their mock Asian temple getup complete with overgrown vines draped over old statues. Zoos are places for learning and education, and not only for children of the Bill Nye generation but for the parents as well. It only takes one question for a parent to learn not to take their child to “The Monkey House” without first visiting the birds and the bees.

If zoos were large fenced in areas where all the animals roamed free more people would be interested in going. It would be like they were in their natural habitat except they would sell funnel cake and silly hats. Sadly, I’m pretty sure after the fourth elk was chased down and devoured zoo officials wouldn’t be too keen on the idea of letting nature take its course. But my theory on life is you have not truly lived until you see a lion run down a gazelle, or in my case while playing with your new kitten as a child, a hawk swooped down and snatched it away leaving you in tears without your pad footed friend.

It is a rite of passage that everyone must experience. They are meant to be hard. They are meant to cause pain. They are meant to leave an inert fear of any winged creature regardless of size. But in the end they are to teach you a lesson to move on with life with. Rites of passage do not just happen at one time, instead they are pot holes on the turnpike of life and, since this is Pennsylvania, we are constantly dealing with them.

If they were easy we would not learn anything. And that is what we are paying tuition for, to learn, not because of the 3:1 female to male ratio, not to acquire the skill of napping in any complex and painful position during class, or even to download Jefferson Starship’s entire catalog of music. The importance lies on the ability for one to obtain these rites. There is a large difference between letting someone drown and letting go of their seat while teaching them to ride a bike. One day you may be finding yourself being the person who makes the decision to let go, while the next you will be riding down the street without training wheels for the first time.

Whether it is a fourth grader making a bad deal for their peanut butter sandwich in the lunchroom or cramming your system with peyote and walking into the desert on a vision quest to become a man, these rites are the staples holding together the thesis paper of life which we all forgot to write up until the night before it was due.
We cannot prepare for them because there is no way of knowing when you will be tested. And when that test finally does come around we can only pray for the peyote to be out of our system.

With the end of the semester approaching like a cheetah stalking a gazelle, we are trying our best to get away from the work chasing us through the savannah but soon enough we will all be caught and slowly devoured until ultimately we’re lying on our backs watching finals start to circle over what’s left of our broken spirits. As much as we bare to crawl out of the elephant graveyard of class, the kings of our pride, the professors, want nothing more than a break from holding animal councils where the warthogs are half asleep, the meerkats hit the pomegranate juice a little hard last night, and no one has done their research on the wet season.

Knowing that information, the work laughing in your face should not be a problem. Your professor is not actually going to read 25 papers on the financial equivalence of Eastern China so here are a few hints to getting through that final paper and make sure you have enough time to take care of the important things like helping a soccer girl de-stress or making it to breakfast at midnight on time.

Your introduction should include a thesis statement that not only is worded following the correct grammar rules, but it should also sound like that is what your paper is going to be about. If your professor reads anything they are going to find your thesis and stop at the end of page one and then go onto the next paper on quantum volleyball. The second page is where your freedom can come in, but be sure to throw in a few key words to catch your professor’s eye if they have decided to skim for a few seconds. For example, if you’re writing about the physics of a black hole, be sure to throw in words like Stephen Hawking, event horizon, and physics hurts my brain.

Around page three is when your professor has started marking up the pages so it looks like he went through your paper with a fine toothed comb. However all he is doing is making patterns that resemble their name in Morse Code if held sideways, much like you always threatened to do on the SATs but never had the brass to. Instead of talking about the Battle of Bull-Run, replace your analysis of the Union Army with a synopsis of that day’s The Price Is Right. If you are writing a paper on percentages and ratios, Plinko may serve as a good addition, but I’m partial to the yodeler game.

Page five you should start writing in your own language. If, in a strange occurrence, your professor catches your attempts at typing in Gerswedishlantic just tell them you wanted to use the original translation of the text.

To finish up your paper keep in the back of your mind that college is an opportunity for you to learn but also for you to express your own view on the world, so be sure to include your opinion in the conclusion. Do not worry if your opinion on freezer pop flavors has nothing to do with your paper topic, they just asked for your opinion, they didn’t specify on what. Sum up your findings by repeating your grammicly correct thesis statement, turn in the paper, and get out of the gorge because there’s a flock of wildebeests stampeding your way.

College is the best time of a person’s life. Forget all the great moments your elders talk about like getting married, buying a house, and throwing your children out of said house when they turn eighteen, these four years you spend sleeping till 2pm occasionally going to class is a legal pass for you to be lazy. And that’s just what we do; be lazy. College students are one of the more interesting creatures on the face of the earth because we will complain about having to drag ourselves across campus to sleep through class but will stay up till 1:00am cruising around the internet chatting to friends in the next room over.

Sadly, however, my time is almost up here at college. But there are a few myths that I would like to put to rest regarding Senioritis. All the underclassmen may not understand what the harsh reality of being a senior is really like. It is not all Senior Nights and traveling Around the World, ya know.

First off, we’ve been in college longer than anyone else in the school so we are poorer than you are. Besides tuition and room and board, you have to consider that because of inflation in the last few years the price of everything has gone up; including paying off professors. I used to be able to pull an A with a nice steak dinner, now I’m stuck taking out another loan for a B-. It almost makes me want to go to the library and earn my grades… but then I’d have to figure out where the library is.

Secondly, we’re expected to plan for our future. For the last four years I have broken down in the cafeteria trying to decide if I wanted chicken or a hamburger for dinner and they expect me to make a “life decision.” Soon they’ll expect me to type up a resume, go to job fairs, and shower on a daily basis. It is a crazy mixed up world of responsibility out there where they expect you to tie your own tie; crazy!

Third, I doubt after I graduate in May someone will ever bet me $20 I can’t eat a whole jar of peanut butter again. And that disappoints me.

Lastly, the worst part about being a senior is that we only have a limit amount of time left here at school. We’re all sick of sitting in class but eventually we’re going to miss those times when we didn’t skip class to play Frisbee. Sure, sometime in the future I’m going to look back at my college life and think of all the opportunities I missed out on but right now my fellow seniors and I have to cherish the last six months we have left on campus, because we’ll only remember three of them.

With Halloween coming and going last week everyone got a chance to be someone they were not. Walking through the dance on Saturday I saw a Captain Planet and his Planeteers tear up the dance floor, while a Country music star was grinding with one of 50 Cent’s groupies. But if its one thing, I’ve learned over the years it’s you cannot replace 50 Cent. Not even with 2 Quarters, or 3 Dimes and 4 Nickels.

Halloween allowed everyone to drape on their costumes and live out their fantasies as someone else. But for some people Halloween is a time for letting their true self shine. Let’s not forget the people that wear a costume the other 364 days of the year. I am talking, of course, of the superheroes that walk among us around campus, trying desperately to hold onto their secret identities. Not to worry my super friends, I am not here to reveal your secrets to the world. Instead, much like Live 8, I am here to merely raise awareness to the troubles you face across campus while leading a double life.

In the lives of most students at this school deciding what to wear to class requires quick thinking when you wake up 3 minutes before class. Luckily many of us are used to answering a number of questions in those groggy few minutes of hazy eye sight in the morning including; where am I? Who is this? And, how come I’m handcuffed to this light pole? For a superhero, deciding what to wear in the morning is a daunting task. Sure, they could roll out of bed and go to class in what they’re wearing, but what if during their Criminology class the new business building collapses, trapping three workers under two tons of stone? It would be a poor excuse to miss the emergency because you could not be bothered with pulling on the tights in the morning under your sweatshirt.

Sure, supersensitive senses seem like a great gift to have, but on the right days they could be a bother. If you think the dorm walls are thin now, imagine if you could hear the cries of a small girl down a well three miles away. The next time you think of turning the bass up on your stereo because the walls aren’t vibrating your roommate’s pictures off his desk you may want to consider that your neighbor may have the ability to destroy your mind with a quick thought; instead of the slow draw out way you do on weekends.

The last thing about superheroes is that their true identities are secret. They could not cash in on the goods even if they wanted to. No matter how cute the girl is that you saved from the burning building, the superhero code does not allow this. Anyone on campus could be a superhero in disguise. Spiderman was Peter Parker, a photographer for a newspaper, Superman was Clark Kent a journalist for a newspaper, and Aquaman… well let’s just say Aquaman is a pretty funny guy who has a lot in common with the other two.

On the grid iron of high school gym class there is always that person that is a little too into the game. Diving for balls way out of play, screaming at teammates who failed to make a critical catch in dodge ball, or crying after losing a flag football game; they wore their pride on the sleeve of the tie-dyed t-shirt they never brought home to wash because of bad karma. The four years they spent Stealing the Bacon and dominating Knockout were the highlights of their life. For forty-five minutes a day they were the Gods of the land, laying down punishment from above as they spiked on the girl with her arms crossed during a volleyball game. Yes, the Gym-Class Hero will always be remembered; but after they graduate what becomes of these behemoths of the bad sportsmanship?

Some of these people move onto the collegiate level of annoying the pants off of everyone around them. After trying to register with the NCAA and being told Ultimate Frisbee is not endorsed by any college as an official team they find the holy grail of their existence in college: intramural sports. You see them out on the soccer fields wearing new cleats and sliding with their spikes up into the goalie for the Computer Science Team while another GCH is spearing their teammate in a flag football game because they “got into the game and just went blank.”

But to a Gym-Class Hero; style is half the battle, while talent is the other, bigger, half. It is a well-known fact in Hero circles that sleeves show weakness so one cannot be weighed down by three extra ounces of fabric covering up their scrawny, pale biceps. Occasionally, that excess sleeve will be used as a head covering if one has misplaced their bandana before game time. Even without the uniform, however, a GCH is never hard to spot; just look for the guy studying the playbook before an intramural game.

When not involved in the competitive world of collegial intramural sports the typical hero can be found at home hanging outside his old high school next to the guy who blasts his car stereo in the parking lot. After school he usually has a large group of kids around him telling war stories of his time in Coach Brunson’s 8th period class. He tells the tale of the Dodgeball Disaster of ’98, the Indoor Soccer Riot of ’01 and the famous Showdown Over Square Dancing from senior year. All great tales of valor; all giving high school kids a reason to study hard and not become this guy.

Sadly, after college many Gym-Class Heroes fade away and become normal members of society just like you or me. People you talk to everyday may had a shadowy past of giving it 110% when all you had to do was change to get an A. But there are the select few that never lose their spirit, never lose their drive, never lose the eye of the domesticated house cat and continue being a professional Gym-Class Hero, as a physical education teacher.

Anyone that has been on a college campus for more than thirty-six hours knows that, on occasion, college life can be more boring than an 8am taught by a houseplant. But this allows us to furrow deep into the backs of our minds and find something many of us have stowed away for the past few years. Through years of suppressed memories of bad dates and being picked last you can stumble across something you bound with duct tape and dumped in the river a long time ago. Yes, I am talking about your imagination, because you can learn about genetics, history since 1977, or aerobics in classes, but nothing will be as useful as learning how to make your own fun.

The first idea brings us back to the years of Field Day when classes would be cancelled and the entire school would be set free to play outside; though I never remember Field Day being cancelled because some kind from another middle school chucked a dodge ball at a teacher. Field Day took ordinary activities like carrying an egg on a spoon and added the spin of making it a relay race between homerooms. Then Bobby Nelson, the smelly kid, would always screw it up and drop his egg like four times during the race causing us to lose to Mrs. Davis’s class; the Ivan Drago of middle school. But adding that twist is what makes an ordinary activity fun; like walking a dog while wearing rollerblades or eating lunch with a few friends during your cadaver lab.

My advice is to have a Dizzy Bat Day. Before you do any activity whether it is walking into class or using the lavatory, bust out a few revolutions on your trusty Louisville Slugger and get going. Not only will it make life more interesting, but like a self-conscious cheerleader is quite a useful weight-loss program.

If you’re more into fun at the expense of others this might be up your alley. Do something outrageous and teetering on the edge of “not suggested by the author.” But please be careful who you discuss such actions with in the future because you may put yourself in an incriminating predicament. “Hey, remember when we kidnapped that freshmen and threw him into the lake over Homecoming weekend?” “uhh, dude, I went home for Homecoming.” “Oh… by ‘kidnapped that freshmen’ I meant ‘found those sick kittens’, and by ‘thrown in the lake,’ I meant ‘nursed them back to health.”

If you’re not into tossing freshmen or your cookies why not consider cheering on one of the groups on campus. The girl’s soccer team has the Hooligans on the Hill but the Tennis Team needs some love too. You can even go beyond sports and give the Spanish Club an “Ole” or two during a meeting. Everyone loves shenanigans, so whether you want to cheer on the cashier at the Jay’s Nest or paint your chest for one of the President’s speeches, do it but make sure everyone knows you’re there to cheer them on. Good speech Mr. President, even though I wasn’t listening I’m going to scream like a 14 year old at a Backstreet Boys concert because I’m a Hooligan.

When you’ve tried all this and still can’t conquer the boredom come look for me. I’ll be the guy with my chest painted sitting with Bobby Nelson in the cafe talking about Homecoming next to a garbage can just in case.

There are a few ways a student can go through their college life. The first path one can chose is that of the academic. These people can be found tucked away in the library until closing hours at least four nights a week. Occasionally they may be seen in the cafeteria recharging on brain-food, but must leave enough space on their tray to balance a biology book or two. It is rare to have a conversation with such a person without them complaining about how they are only four weeks ahead of schedule in one class and three weeks in the rest. Sometimes when pushed for social interaction they can be found in a group study room longing to find another kindred spirit looking for a place to drift through references together. Though the only words spoken will be, “Mind if I read in here?” their synchronized breathing patterns and swift pace of page-turning will let them know that they belong together forever.

The second path a person can take in college is to never have any time to do anything. This is the type of person that wakes up in the morning at 6am because they have to walk dogs for the K-9 Club before jumping over to the morning debate between the College Republicans and Democrats. After quick breakfast/lunch at the cafeteria you run directly over to the theater skipping your afternoon classes because you’re in a main stage production and theater comes before everything at school. With the sun long past set you travel to Emotion practice while phoning in your practice via speaker phone with Melica. Though rare, this person can be found in their room between 2:00-5:30am but if you come across this small scared creature be sure to be gentle, as any swift movement can cause it to scurry away and will not be spotted again till the next Into the Streets meeting.

Most students fall in between these two extremes; with a few groups to call our own and minimum time spent on anything academic. As a whole the campus community’s involvement on campus is seeing an upswing as the Office of Student Activities has made it easier for students interested in starting a group to get one. Because of this, new groups have been sprouting up around campus that have not gotten as much exposure as they should.

Facebook Stalkers meets every other Thursday in the computer lab on the second floor. For additional information stare a blank AIM box wishing yourself the courage to send an IM to that cute girl in your science class. The new group Deus Sport brings the complexity of organic chemistry and adds it to the fun of football as teams genetically engineer players from scratch; birthing and raising them in an accelerated atmosphere until its game time. Playing God hasn’t been this fun since putting your roommates hand into warm water at night; with slightly less wet consequences!

The Semi-Rebellious Club will meet at noon on Wednesday in the cafeteria. After taking two bananas while leaving they will gather down by the lake to feed the water fowl and then adjourn to their respective rooms where they call the president of the school using the *37 method and after he answers hang up really quickly and giggle to themselves.

The number of ways to get involved on campus is countless. If you can’t find something that interests you then you should probably transfer.

The day starts off like any other at school. You wake up to an alarm and look at the clock; it’s 6:00am, your roommate has class at 8:00am and you don’t have class till 11:00am so you roll over and fall back asleep. Drifting back into a deep sleep you dream about a trip to Hershey Park with Bob Barker and Jaleel White. After a humorous adventure on all the rides and attractions, Jaleel slams into Bob’s bumper car and right before he could say his famous “Did I do thaaaaat?” you are woken up by another alarm; it’s 6:09am.

Perfect, another day on campus, another reason to slip your roommate a Georgia Home Boy and plant him in the President’s Jacuzzi wearing nothing but an invitation with the expulsion board. Since you’re awake anyway there’s nothing standing in your way from getting the day started. The showers at college aren’t just for washing. No, when you enter the haven of tile and echoes on a college campus the shower is a place to find information about anything from last night’s events to the reign of Stalin. One can hear just about anything with a sly enough ear and new this year it has been accepted as a respected reference for papers. Lecturer. “Title of Conversation.” Date of Event. Brand of Shampoo.

Now some may say that college students are not up to date on their current events and instead we live in our own little world of Facebook groups, intramural Frisbee, and staying up ridiculously late for no reason. But this is just a myth; college students are very up-to-date on what is going on around them and they get all the information they need to know before finishing their morning routine for almost nothing is held more sacred in a college than the omniscient Toilet Talk. Get the Best News Known, While Sitting on the Throne.

Sadly, being a full-enrolled student means that at some point of your day class will be involved. Whether it’s skipping class or sleeping through it, class is an important part of our education system. Without having a class on Modern American Government how would politicians of the future learn the proper technique for pushing their opposition out of the way while acquiring power, and without Biochemistry labs where would our professional sports heroes like Rafael Palmeiro be?

On the travels across campus the chimes of the library sing an enchanted tune which brings a calm to anyone in earshot. As the weeks progress this majestic tune will be come the death rattle of hope and faith as you snap out of your daze and into a sprint realizing that you are now officially late for your 9:30 Anthropology mid-term.
Besides the beautiful scenery of a campus in the middle of Pennsylvania this school offers diversity. There are a plethora of majors and concentrations for students to choose from but the diversity can be seen in the student body itself and can accurately be described as a polar bear in a snow storm. And in case you are curious why the minority students always have people with camera around them, it is not a new reality series on ECTV. The administration just finds it really important to have pictures of the international students buying textbooks to post on the website… and the admissions brochure… and the new school seal. I wonder how much film they wasted until they realized it wasn’t the cameras fault the kid from Transylvania wasn’t showing up in the pictures?

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!… ugh.

I've never had to purchase condoms and just like the first time with everything related to condoms, it was incredibly awkward. I dont know why it should have been. I'm 21, considered an adult by the US Military, the IRS, the court system and the Gamboling Association of America but there's still something about drafting Captain Condom to active duty that gives me the giggles. Walking around Rite-Aid, I decided to find the other item on my list first; a wedding card. After 15 minutes of looking at cutsie cards about love and devotion with doves I debated whether to get a first anniversary card and write "trying to stay ahead of the times." But decided it would be a bad idea incase the marriage doesnt last that long and that card is the last piece of encouragement my buddy needed to burn down the house for the insurance money.

After finding the card I had to find Sgt Spermicide's Hard Hats and noticed a variety of boxes in front of the pharmacist. I couldn't just stop and stare until I found the box I was looking for so I decided to walk past and glance to my side hoping no one too notice. Who knew there were so many kinds of Coporoal Crazy Stick's Rain Slickers?! I did four or five different fly-bys until I found what I was looking for. The pull was magnificent, a master theif could not have done it better and not even the pharmacist from his perch high atop the rest of the store noticed I had snatched up the 12 pack.

Finished with my shopping I made my way to the front of the store with my purchases towards the guy I saw at the counter when I entered the store. But to my alarm he was no where to be found. I debated whether to casually walk around the deposible cameras until he came back, but that could have been hours, and I had much more important things to do like write about my adventures buying General Jolly Roger's One-Eyed Trouser Snake Eye Patch. So I sucked in my pride and walked up to the 70 year old woman behind the counter, placing the card on top so she could make the connection herself; "My buddy's getting married, so these are for him." Hopefully not mistaking my message as; "My buddy's getting married and Jesus ain't gonna be the only person getting nailed!"

Being a professional Rite-Aid employee she didn't even flinch when the 12-pack of Lt. Longfellow's Noodle Bags emerged from under the card. Which made me wonder, why should she? I'm sure this 70 year old woman had engaged in sexual activity, a long time ago before it was disgusting for me to think about. We exchanged currency and she handed me the bag with Private Peter's Private Protectors and wished me a 'good day.' Indeed it will be ma' lady, thank you for showing me through the blinding light into the clear realm of realization; old people have sex too.

Everyone says the same thing when they leave school for the semester; "This summer I'm going to do nothing but lift weights and get in shape." I'm guilty of saying it on three consecutive summer vacations, but this time I actually did something about it. I threw away the phone numbers of friends, burned any form of entertainment in my bedroom, and made my basement into a Vietnam-era prison camp where I keep my family. It might have been a little extreme just for being manly, but if testosterone were not a great influence in decisions we wouldnt have great inventions like grenade launchers and motorized tie-racks.

Over my two months of frequent visits to the gym I've noticed a few things. Upwards of four days a week I trek through the clear glass of Work Out World and use machines working muscles I cannot pernounce. The first thing I noticed is no matter when I go into the gym there is always that random naked guy in the locker room. I'm safe enough in my sexuality to not be completely freaked out by a random naked guy but there's no reason to be cleaning out your ears naked in front of a mirror. And what makes me more urked is the guy having the conversation with the random naked guy. What could be so important that you can't wait for your buddy to put on pants before talking about that killer shot in the racketball game? Is the world going to end? Are they in grave immediate danger? No. So be quiet until the man can put on a pair of jockeys.

Out in the gym space itself there are a plethera of other people, most of whom fall into a specific category of gym-goer. The first is the group that is at the gym to workout. Plain and simple, they don't want to talk, they're not there to watch TV while walking on a treadmill, and they definatly don't want to be slapped on the ass as they get off a machine and hear "good lift." These are the type of people who will not ask if they can "work in with you" If someone is on their machine they leave it behind like an overdosed teen at a rave so not to make a scene.

The second group is the complete opposite of the first. They are there for the social atmosphere a gym creates. Weights are there to struggle with so the ripply policeman can come over and help you get in on the rack while a hamstring is a new kind of dental floss. Mostly a female group, they have been known to do only ab crunches and cardio work. A dedicated member may even walk 4-5 miles a day down the same lonely path until the man of her dreams walks up next to her on the eliptical.

The third group are the guys that like going to the gym with their buddies to lift incredibly unhealthy amounts of weight. These are the guys that can stop bullets with their pex and will ask my 150lb self to spot them as they benchpress a small volkswagon. I've stopped hesitating when they ask because if they drop it on their chest and die it won't be my fault the guy is too dumb to figure out the only way I'm moving that thing off his chest is with a crane and 6 union guys.

I'm in a group all my own. I'm not anti-social, but I really dont like to talk. I'm not trying to impress anyone by how much weight I can press and I'm definatly not going to be random naked guy anytime soon. But I'll be semi-in shape for when I get back to school and perhaps once the brain juices start flowling I'll be able to invent some kind of tie-rack launcher.