If the eyes are the window to the soul, then a bumper sticker is portal to the back of a moron's head.
By majoring in a field that places a heavy emphasis on the proper use of language and simultaneously being a since-birth member of Generation Y, Z, XXX or whatever the hell we're called, I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. Everywhere I hear people horrendously butchering the language I've spent the last 20-odd years trying to understand.
Last week, I came to an unexpected realization: I am a superstitious tool. I've always dismissed superstition as worthless and irrelevant, and now I'm as guilty as morons who still have rabbits' feet dangling from their key chains.
Everyone loves a villain. Well, we like to hear about them, anyway.
I have a strong stomach. Only a handful of things consistently turn my stomach contents into a downtown sidewalk display: catching a ride post- or mid-drinkathon, all songs Nickelback and when, like, people, like, say "like" all the time. Other than those three things, I rarely get to taste my stomach acid.
If People magazine had a face, I would punch it. Hard. Nineteen-year-old Mike Tyson hard.
I've come to terms with my post-graduation joblessness. I haven't raised a white flag. Hope is not lost. I just understand my career won't be awaiting me, flowers in hand.
People have forgotten how to talk to each other.
Another Super Bowl came and went, and did anything come from it? Personally, I didn't learn anything new or surprising.
I have a question for anyone who has ever watched television: What the hell is wrong with us?
Solutions by The State News
