Badda Boom. Badda Bing.

I just forgot my password to log into Blogger. That's where my head's at.

Every year I've got at least one class that breaks'a my heart. It's usually in the Journalism school, and this term it's that Reporting class. You know, friends, I want to stay positive about it, but when you get your story back with a page full of typed notes on what's wrong with it (with a brief pat-your-back start) and there are red marks throughout the piece ... mein Gott. It's a crusher. What makes it worse (and I know, I KNOW, good students don't do this) is that I looked across the table at someone else's story. There was a 3 line cover sheet and 2 marks of red pen.
2.
And I'm sure one of them was "great job!"

To balance, I got 100% on a copy editing assignment -- So I'm done with writing. I'm just going to correct other people's junk from now on. That's the job for me. Too bad copy ed. internships are in places like Ohio or Pennsylvania or Iowa.

I mean, I don't want to regret going to school and all, but I like Eugene. I don't want to live in Winesburg, Ohio and work for Little Town News. I want to stay here, where I just got the books shelved. But, apparently, if I want to translate this experience into real work I'll need to be flexible on location (and pay scale). Had I known that by graduation I'd be getting an unusable degree I would have switched over to the English Department a long time ago and worked at a bookstore/library/legit job like the majority of real people I know. You were all totally right. I chose poorly. As it is, I'll just pay this off and be thankful that I learned a little something about Italian, Beat poetry and Bollywood.

Cah, and I'll come out of my university experience without even having met a husband. Why? Why? Shoulda' rushed a sorority when I had the chance. If only I'd gone Kappa Delta...