The Freshman Apocalypse.

Tonight was the end of a very special moment in history: the end of The Hills.

What will the world do without shifty-eyed glances, conversations full of confusion, and girl-on-girl drama all over catchy tunes? The world just might not go on.

Here’s the kicker. At the end of the show Brody (whom I like to call Grody) walked away from Kristen as she was leaving for “Europe” outside her LA home… Or so we thought. Suddenly the skies shifted and the clouds opened. Sunlight beamed in from behind the FAKE TREES. The scene walls were moved away. Is this some sort of sick joke?!

I think it has become clear to all of those with a functioning brain that Laguna Beach, The Hills, and The City (how did Lauren Conrad do all that?) have all been scripted to some point. However, to what point? Was Heidi and Spencer’s marriage a clever ruse? Was Heidi’s plastic surgery a fat mask like the one Mrs. Doubtfire wore? I feel so betrayed.

While living in my beloved college town this summer, I have discovered something that I have never been so aware of. Freshmen.

These creepy crawlers are everywhere. Perhaps it is my own fault for taking a Journalism 101 class the summer before my senior year, but I’m telling you, they know something. They’re just like the squirrels frolicking around campus; waiting for the perfect moment to attack.

I have spotted these children everywhere I look. In class, on campus, at the gym, at the bar (I’m pretty sure you aren’t 21), and even through the drive-through at McDonalds. I’m pretty sure if there were a nuclear war attack, they would all survive… Like cockroaches. What gets me more than anything is that they aren’t active; all they do is stand around and look. Last time I looked it up, you were supposed to move your body when you’re at the gym, not just look around at the sorority t-shirts every other girl has on.

I would like to note that YES, I do understand that I was a freshman and YES I was just as clueless as they are. However, I tried to blend in, which I feel, they are not attempting. The main reason I am irritated with these little ones is because they spend too many minutes wasting my time. I don’t have fifteen extra minutes that I would like to spend in my class explaining to these creatures how the collegiate website works. This, in turn, is a waste of my money. Time is money. I got my mind on my money and my money on my mind.

Today fireworks, tomorrow the world.

This weekend I found myself traveling to strange outer limits of the universe.  The place I traveled is a land called Arkansas.  Rarely do people go to this land of wild boar noises and cut off tees, but I grappled with this adventure.  Most people seem to be in a bad mood.  This would be reason 5,678 why I didn’t go to college there.  Maybe there’s something in the water.

While adventuring in this land crawling with the danger of ex-boyfriends in every corner, I learned something about myself.  I DO NOT want to have too many children in my later years.  I became frightened when cornered by three children aged eight and ten (the eight year olds are twins) with nowhere to turn.  They wouldn’t take no for an answer.  They began crawling up my bare legs.  I had no choice but to make cheese dip.  The one good thing about Arkansas is that it is the number one consumer of Velveeta in the world; therefore there is always cheese around.  The cheese saved me from an untimely death.

I came to the realization that it is only possible to have more than two children if a parent is either a polygamist or a three-headed creature.  Thank goodness I realized this before I shot three kids out and obviously became an alcoholic, with nowhere else to turn.

While in Arkansas I took a roll on the tube.  For those of you who are uninformed the tube is an inflatable device that is built to ride on water.  I was quite the tube enthusiast back in my day and decided to take it for a whirl with my nephews.  My dad used to go easy on me, since I have a Y chromosome, but this time no mercy was seen or felt. 

I am currently waiting to make an appointment for a kidney transplant since I no longer have working kidneys and I hear they are important.  I flew off the tube like a floppy Frisbee.  Legs spread, elbows out, I tried to stay on.  Several times, I was nearly successful until the unspeakable happened.  My swimsuit bottoms began inching down.  Any schooled woman knows when such a thing happens there is no chance of survival.  You have two options: lose your bottoms or let go of the tube.  I chose the latter of the two.  I couldn’t sacrifice losing my pants and my dignity in front of these males.  I have to wear the pants in this family.  Literally.      

After exiting this crime scene of a seven year old, a four year old, two eight year olds, one ten year old, four fourty-somethings, two sixty-somethings, and an eighty-something (also known as my cluster-you-know-what of a family) I ran as fast as I could.  Just like the gingerbread man.  My family is normal most of the time, but sometimes it’s just too much.  I need my space and when I can’t get it I turn into Ursula from The Little Mermaid.  Children fear me.  After spilling wine on my dad’s boat I knew it was time to flee like the Jews.  A girl can only be so frazzled.

I found myself in another godforsaken town, this time in Mississippi.  I went to visit my boyfriend, Jake.  He is currently living in a camper and working at a fireworks stand that is conveniently located next to a Texaco.  I can’t say EWWWWWWWW enough times.  Gross.  No running water.  Small amounts of air conditioning in sweat-your-balls-off weather.  If I had balls, they would be gone.  No question.

I’m very proud of Jake for putting up with these shenanigans for as long as he has.  I couldn’t do it.  It’s just not for me.  I like my air conditioning, bathtub, and Internet, not to mention civilization.  All the folks around these parts were very nice but not quite the hottest firecrackers if you speak my lingo.  Their use of the English language was astounding.

However, there was a light at the end of this tunnel heated by the fires of hell.  I was inspired to go above and beyond my means of creativity to develop a show.  A fireworks show. 

Every summer I go to my lake house for the Fourth of July.  This year is going to be spectacular.  I have already decided.  I am going to put together an amateur fireworks show.  Perhaps if I do this well, others will pay me to do the same for them (I need some doll hairs to support my binge eating habit).  I’m currently doing research on what types and how I should do this.  If I blow off a finger or singe my eyebrows off I will be pissed.  At least I could get some nice little pain pills for that.  I’m always looking on the bright side.  I envision my fireworks show to be bigger than the average Joe’s but slighter smaller than that of Disney world.  I am also planning to be prepared if I have a rival.  If they try to one-up me I will show them who the fireworks boss is.  Never one-up a one-upper.

June and I need to go get McDonald’s.  Fat camp is next week.

If you liked it then you should have put a drink on it.

Recently my life has been more greatly filled with drama and going out on the town than it usually is.  Usually, I am a plain old glazed, now I am a jelly filled delight.  In donutting terms.  Summer is filled with far fewer people than during the school year.  The small groups of people herd together and form strange alliances that are explored in the late hours of the night.

On Monday night, I found myself, once again, going out with all my single ladies.  Not being a single lady myself, I have found myself occupying my free time through a variety of pointless pastimes.  One of the most successful, I have found, is going out.  Now let me explain to you what going out is like in this town.  As one of my friends, Marilyn, so beautifully put it, most people go out to have a drink or listen to some good music.  Here, we don’t do that.  We go out and drink heavily until we are forced to leave the bar that we so gracefully inhabit.  This may sound borderline alcoholic binge drinking behavior and perhaps it is.  At least it isn’t every night.  That’s what freshman year was for.  We are responsible for keeping the economy up here.  I do what I can.

On this very special Monday night I found myself in an old favorite bar that wisely markets $2 pitchers of beer on Monday nights.  Genius, I know.  When we were forced to leave we walked to one of my friend’s place of residence.  (My house is too far away to walk.)  I decided I was hungry, which I have been continuously ever since my stomach virus.  Will I ever be full again?  This is quite the opposite of what Scarlett O’Hara declared so many years ago.  By and by, I was hungry.  As you might remember, a nocturnal creature encountered me a few nights prior to this.  I decided to use this information to my advantage, as any weathered businesswoman would.  I called Dominos Pizza.  I told them I had information they might find “interesting.”  I explained that I would keep the information on the vermin entering their whereabouts from the “press” if they would give me a free pizza.  A fair deal, right? Wrong.  I spoke to the manager and he said I could tell the press.  I wasn’t getting a free pizza.  Close but no cigar, as my Dad always says.  Such a wise old elf.

Why did I think this would be a smart approach?  Obviously I was trying to save some money.  Before hanging up I told the manager, “You’re mean,” and hung up.  I ended up getting McDonalds.  They were much more friendly.

My dear friend and roommate, June, has warned me that I am going to alienate each and every pizza company here.  I believe this is a false statement.  There could be no such day.  I keep the pizza business going in this town.  They couldn’t live without me… at least I hope not.

I have recently entered the category of being morbidly obese because I have been eating my feelings since I have no boyfriend around these parts.  To curb this weight gain that is ominously approaching I have been exercising quite frequently.  Today I did kickboxing.  At first, I thought I was going to trip on my own toes and knock out my very expensive teeth (5 years of orthodontia adds up), as my Mother so kindly reminded me before this adventure.  However, once I got the hang of it I was going like Kirstie Alley to McDonalds-which is what I was going to be if I didn’t engage myself in this exercise torture.  Surprisingly, I found it to be successful on several different levels.  I burned several hundred calories which is always torturous but then allows you to eat even more-Yippee!  But it also allowed me to air punch all my frustration.  It was beautiful.  I even made a few grunts as the leader suggested.  I’m a follower.  My grunts were ladylike though, not to worry.  Not Serena Williams, more like how Ryan Seacrest would squeal or rather, squall. 

I feel as if my muscles will turn to rock tomorrow.  At the very least, I hope to feel a burn in the chicken fat area of my arms.  These Oprah arms have got to go.

Until next time my fair-weather friends.  Parting is such sweet sorrow.