"and thus began the academic apocalypse"

HEAR YE! HEAR YE!

the academic apocalypse is upon us, dark are the days at hand. Many of us are prone to violent allergic reactions, including (but not limited to) uncontrollable eye leakage, sleep deprivation, malnutrition, academic based TRETS, and loss of basic knowledge of fundamental living principals~ such as verbal communication. Welcome to the age of wailing and gnashing teeth.

Every year, we each experience this horrible social and mental pandemic called... finals. It always begins the same way. I have included some figures so that you could see exactly what happens to the human condition in this horrible blight upon humanity.

the above picture depicts a brain that has not yet become infected. Notice the lack of inflammation and the lovely robust nature of the tissue. Now, look at the picture below. It is riddled with inflammation, and is prone to violent tremors. In addition, all the creative juices have flowed out of the brain along with basic facts of hygiene, spelling, formulas needed to be used to ward off finals, and knowledge of childhood memories. In fact, at this point, the inner child has died. Finals are like AIDS of the brain. Eventually it will kill its host through ridding it of all protection, primarily happiness and creativity.

After a short time period of this intensive stress on the brain, the brain implodes. The resulting host is left brainless and subject to a mediocre existence.

A romance to rival Romeo and Juliet's sordid affair.

This is the typical age old story of romance.

So women have this fantasy notion in their heads that when they give their heart away, its a beautiful and tender moment, kind of like the one depicted in the following drawing

The woman's eyes grow large with anticipation of reciprocated sentiments of love....

The man grows bored, and wary... simultaneously. He can probably sense the shift in tensions in the air, he is also probably preparing to run, like any smart human being would do.

The actual giving of one's heart is a truly messy affair. Seriously, its utterly abhorrent, its no wonder that so many attempted relationships end in failure. like this sad story that is about to unfold...

previously, we had the romanticized version of heart giving, this is the realistic interpretation, complete with blood spewage and pulsation.

Men, have no comprehension of what you have given them. they are horrified by the living, pulsating thing you have handed them that spews life-juice. Perhaps you should have started off with something subtle, like bugs, and dirt before you got to the really messy things. Women, you have to be plotters~ we all know that love is about secret combinations and tricking our significant others. This poor man has been scarred for life.

Meanwhile, as the man's poor strained brain is short circuiting, all the woman see's is love in the form of rainbows, and unicorns, and flowers, and giant floating hearts above her head. Her smile basically consumes her face as she waits for her man to accept her humble gift, of her ripped out, still beating heart.

But then, the unthinkable happens. Due to the fact that the man's brain short-circuited, he reverted to his caveman~esque ways. With a roar, and an over-exaggerated display of hostility and distaste, he rejects the maiden's heart...

Realization has not quite struck yet, and the woman is caught in an over-analytical state that will not stop the unavoidable conclusion

Gone are the rainbows, the magical floating hearts, the mythical creatures, and the desired feelings of being accepted and cared for....

This is Jill. Jill tried to follow her heart, but alas, her heart was navigationally challenged and did not possess a GPS. Do not be like Jill, unless you wish to binge on Ben and Jerry's and become gargantuan.

The moral of this story, is to emotionally invest in a dog, or a fish, or some other life form that is depended on you for food and shelter and also lacks the capacity to talk back or throw things (like your heart).

this draft is unfinished. I just know that some of you were getting your panties in a knot because you wanted to see it right now. I then reminded you that patience was a virtue, but I was wrong~ I guess it is only a myth. anyways, here are your tasty morsels for the evening.

Some Philosophies on Life

Another day has passed. La- de-freaking-dah. was anyone else disappointed with how mundane their existence truly is? I mean seriously. I wake up, try to eat my freaking eggo but I have to fight off ninjas the whole time, I'm all like "leggo my eggo!!" and they are just screaming at me in their crazy sing song language, then I have to saddle my elephant so I can go to school but he always just wants to play fetch, then my boyfriend Moroni (that's Captain Moroni to you) just wants me to go and be translated, but I ain't got time to be twinkled~ I am in organic chemistry, afterall. Then after lunch I'm with FBI operatives all day and then I finally get to go home to my secret lair I bought from Batman.... *

*events in this story may be grossly exaggerated and/or entirely fictional.

Actually, I don't eat breakfast, ninjas avoid me like the plague, I don't have an elephant- I only have a bike- I am very, very single... No one meets with me after lunch, and I don't have a secret lair, I only have a ghetto fabulous apartment. I do however, have organic chemistry.

oh organic chemistry... I just had my second midterm at 7:30 on Monday morning, thats right, as in AM.I secretly enjoyed it~ I think I may need to check myself into a mental institution immediately. there is no way a sane individual would like her midterm.I guess I just like to destroy all things normal.Speaking of how much I love science, I found this delightful picture of Einstein for you. I'm in love. my favorite part (besides that big beautiful exterior, mind you) is the E=mc^2 tattoo. meeeeeeeeoooooooow.I cannot even tell you how greatly my heart delights in books of scientific theory and interactive periodic tables.

Something horrific happened to me on Sunday. Someone from school did not recognize me at church. I mean okay.... I understand that I am not portrayed in the best light in the school setting, but do you have class at 7:30 in the morning? are you taking 18 credit hours? do you not care about your external appearance? do you like to sleep in during the time that normal girls alot to beautifying their exterior beyond recognition? if you answered yes to all these questions, then your name might be Kylie.

I have a theory as to why I am unrecognizable. it goes kind of like this: On Sunday, I am magically altered, as in, the molecular integrity of my being becomes exalted. Photons of light literally aspire to be like me, and so, they embrace me and that is how I exude light and a heavenly glow.

However....

by Monday, these photons are so exhausted from trying to be like me that they demand the day off and therefor, I lose my glow and my true, unadorned form is revealed. Then I go to organic chemistry at 7:30 in the morning, and I die a spiritual death so that the photons flee from my presence and in my lost and degraded state, I look like this. eff you organic chemistry.

(please refer to picture below)

the way the dating game should be.

I've made an executive decision. All dating should be professional, and run like any efficient business. you are correct, from now on, I will be using an application/interview method. Imagine if you had your suitors fill out an application (with a current, color photo of themselves included) that answered all the necessary questions. Then, you could hold an interview to smooth over some ambiguous answers, or help you pick between those few that seem to be on equal ground

the positives? everything is positive.

the negatives? there are no negatives, except for the fact that this procedure completely destroys the sweet stage of getting to know someone when you first start dating and it eliminates the adorable awkwardness.

it would look something like this:

name:

birthdate:

favorite color:

favorite animal:

intentions:

do you like ketchup?

are you left handed?

do you think it is socially acceptable to dress up like elves and hunt for orcs in the wash?

my best trait?

your best trait?

return missionary? (if you are not, do not even bother submitting an application)*

worthy priesthood holder?*

temple recommend holder?*

do you like pancakes?

favorite food?

list of top ten talents?

height?

what is your relationship like with your family?

do you like animals?

mayonnaise or miracle whip?

can you handle extreme mud football, wrestling, and cuddling?

do you like fart jokes?

of course this is just a sample. and a photo would need to be included, applications without photos will be discarded without review. Yes, I will be looking at your photo when you are under consideration. No ugly people are allowed to submit applications. lets face it, I have excellent bone structure, and we can't let that go to waste. also, eternity is a long time. I want to like what I'm looking at. shallow? yes. honest? yes. lovable? undecided.

your chances of being selected increase significantly if your picture captures you in a state of utter manliness. this is where the featured picture above comes into play. it is an example of a potential suitor picture. he is choking a bear with his man hands while simultaneously smiling and looking very hot.

Chunky monkey.

This is my paper. for me. I decided it would be exciting if I gave myself a deadline and wrote for myself. My fabulous roommate, Chelsea, picked the topic: An Ode to Chunky Monkey.

Dearest Chunky Monkey. How odd that I should love you. I was never keen on banana nor dark fudge chunks, but the medley of these two combined proves irresistible to me. there is ice cream, and then there is you, my sweet, sweet, chunkyM. Sometimes, I wonder if you could possibly love me, but then I realize that it must be so, for how else could I consume 390 calories per a serving and eat all 4 servings in one sitting and feel at ease with myself? It was meant to be.

You have seen me through so much.... All those no-makeup mondays, t-shirt tuesdays, worndown wednesdays, thrownon thursdays, and frumpy fridays; not to mention the savage saturdays and the saddened sabbaths. I've told you all about those boys... the ones who didn't turn out to be real men and the ones I've appreciated. I've whispered to you my aspirations, and murmured my dreams in hushed tones. I've cried to you. Sometimes that thought makes me guilty... you usually only experience my presence when some great calamity has befallen me. it seems like the chemistry of our relationship only works out that way. All I know, is that there are many nights in our future ahead. girl talk, movie night, my own rendition of the trail of tears (to my bedroom from the kitchen), and pure decadence. I love you.

My life as a Pencil

Sometimes, as I sit amoung my fellow zombie classmates in my Organic chemistry class at 7:30 in the morning I wonder what my life would be like as a pencil. You are probably wondering why I am in chemistry at 7:30 in the morning... that makes two of us. I guess you may also be wondering why I am even imagining myself as a pencil. this train of thought leads directly to the fact that I am in an intensive course at an ungodly hour.

Anyway, going back to being a pencil. I suppose I should start off with a visual. I wouldn't be one of those mechanical pencils.... they are generally considered cold and inferior by the writing utinsel community. No, I would be one of those classic wooden penicls in the old school style with the ridges that fit so perfectly within your fingers. I would be one of those handsome pencils that people pick up just to smell and admire its perfectly sharpened point. I would have a big embossed " #2 " on my side in green ink and I would be coated in a yellow color that makes school buses feel dull. My eraser would be so exquisite that all the other lesser pencils would be jealous; it would be soft and leave no traceable smudge or those annoying eraser crumbs. I would be a thing of utmost beauty as well as a symbol of ideas about to be born.

My life story would truly begin over the summer before my master was to attend a university. My master would be a most accomplished poet, and she would give me the honor of bringing her words to life on paper. Our greatest adventure would begin when my master finally began school. I would feel the excitement coursing through her fingers and into my small wooden frame. so many delicious subjects we would write down and learn about. line upon line, precept upon precious precept. however, I would always hate the moment when I was returned to the bag, the wide gapping mouth that offered nothing but darkness. I would also hate being placed in the pencil box, with all the other writing things. who do the ballpoint pens think they are? its called the PENCILbox for a reason. I would be jealous when my master would choose one of them instead, but that feeling would be fleeting because I would know that she prefers me. how would I know this? well, she complains about them. she hates how they blot, and smear, and run out. Me? well, I'm steady and I won't ruin your shirt if you forget to put my cap on; oh that's right, I don't have an annoying cap to put on or loose. I AM the greatest writing tool. oh of those days, however, I would be begin to notice that my eraser isn't so tall, and my yellow paint has chips in places, and I no longer smell like new wood. at first, I would be troubled; however, I would eventually come to the conclusion that my master still loves me, why shouldn't I?

then it would happen, I would be forgotten and forsaken. My master would leave me in some Godforsaken classroom (probably O. Chem). I know she wouldn't do it purposefully.... but lets face it, at this point, I'm a middle aged pencil and I just do not have the same sentimental value as I once bore~ she will not return for me. I would sit there all day, on the floor, in the lecture hall, rotting, next to some half drank dutch bros coffe cup, and starbucks, and gum. you really have no right to say "F my life" until you are a pencil in these dire circumstances, I can't even walk or call out. I would just continue to lay there, in the college filth, and.... wait.

wait? for what, you say? well. I would wait for another college student to come along. I would be picked up by a student who was high whose sole purpose in picking me up was to scrap the gum of the bottom of his shoe. then he would continue to degrade my existence by forcing me to draw inappropriate graffiti (from the Latin word meaning scribblings) on the back of the chair in front of him. I would later be tossed to the wayside as the flood of students evacuates the lecture hall. At least at this point I would be outside; Gee, I'm really going places in this world.

Just when you think life couldn't get any lower, it does. there I am, huddling in the gravel, outside lecture hall LSE 191, when I'm picked up yet again. This time its a college delinquent who has a bit of an arson problem. He takes me and goes about his way. For the time being, I almost feel secure, but just when I finally am at ease, he sits at one of the many benches on campus and flips out his lighter. He proceeds to light me on fire and idly watch me burn. Then, he too throws me to the side and places me in an ashtray.

I'm dirty, charred, a remnant of what I once was. I will never be able to carry out my intended function again. I've been abandoned numerous times and my sorrow knows no bounds. Who would dare to pick me up? and even if they did, would I want them to? could I handle being tossed aside once more? I submit myself to my fate.

However, fate has decided to show her softer side. An art student seeking inspiration came to the bench near me. Her auburn hair hung haphazardly down her back and looked striking against her dark lavender blouse. She gazed around with slightly slumped shoulders, as if she knew that nothing could inspire her~ she had met inspiration's end. But by chance, she saw me in the ash tray and set me free from it's woeful captivity, and took me on her way.

I dared to hope, and even to feel~ had this gracious creature given me a second chance? She had, I was her inspiration. My story ends in perfect happiness. My art student incorporated me into her final piece, and there I am still, in a little art gallery in Phoenix. I began and ended as a source of inspiration, though I failed to see the course it took at the time.

the end.

this story really has no point, if you were wondering. there is no moral. except that even as a pencil, my life would be significant.

The Family.

"...and then the students lived happily ever after once the malicious Finals were completely obliterated. "

The End.

While this is the story that many of us would like to believe to be true, it is not so. the truth of the matter is that many of us tired, academic soldiers trudged home, back into the parent's nest. the concept of returning to the humble abode of one's parents almost has a Hollywood-esque feeling, a nearly romantic appeal as in the biblical story of the prodigal son. I reckon that my fellow students returned graciously, in some aspects over joyous to be home. I would also wager that within 48 hours of the initial homecoming those very same students were questioning why they returned home at all as the warm welcoming spirit dissipated and they were forced to participate in the everyday drudgery one would call "chores".

Its interesting to see an individual's connection with his(or her) family. The smallest actions can entirely upset the delicate balance of the family and cause World War III in the living room. I have come to the realization that such strong displays of emotion are not on account of the people in question hardly tolerating each other, but the exact opposite. It is the love they have for one another that allows such heated tirades because they know that the love they have will weather whatever hurts are inflicted. [[disclaimer: this may or may not be the case in your own family/experience, this is just what I have observed in my own life]] Any way you slice it, your familial bonds permeate your social mannerisms between each other and those who are not of your flesh and blood.

With such close connections to family, one may wonder why we are the least likely to go to our families when something 'unpleasant' may occur. After all, who can give you the most support? Who understands you the best? Your mother even harbored you as a parasite for nine months. With all these things considered, it makes logical sense that you would be closer to your family, and therefore be able to divulge the unpleasing things that occur when life runs amuck. BUT.... we don't. Generally, we try to hide the unsightly from those who are best equipped to support us. Despite other obvious displays of our comfort with our family (aggression, mainly), could the truth be that we are still harboring insecurities? Perhaps we are afraid that the love our family has to offer cannot withstand all of the actions we have taken.

You must be aware of certain choices you've made that would put your relationship with one of your relatives at a standstill at the very minimum. For instance, imagine if your sister had a pet chicken that she loved dearly; darling, with copper eyes, lovely rust colored feathers, and a chicken-esque name of Penny. Now- imagine you going out at night, you climb into your truck, put the keys into the ignition, and begin backing up. *thud* You pause... thud is never a good sign, especially when it is dark and there is not suppose to be anything to make a *thud* noise in the approximate area that you just thudded.... You put the car in park, climb out, and realize that the stupid chicken had decided to sleep in the wheel well, and you just ran over her. what do you do? I suggest you do what any smart sibling who fears retribution would do. you dispose of the chicken victim and blame her disappearance on coyotes. a little low? yes. However, your sense of right and wrong is being driven back by your ever-calculating logical side. If you did tell your sister, she would be upset and now have a person to pin the blame on (although if you think back, its not YOUR fault the chicken was in the wheel well; come to think of it, your sister should have been responsible enough to put the chicken away). Perhaps you two had been fighting previously and had finally patched things up between yourselves; the death of the chicken would open new hurts and rekindle the sibling war~ with so much at stake how could you possibly go to your little sister? Amidst all this thought process you are secretly grieving as your conscience is assuaged by guilt from being a chicken murderer, covering your tracks, and lying.

This judgment, in many ways, holds us back from our full potential. Because our families are so dear to us, we give the "what if"s too much power over our decision making. We are not willing to lose the love our families have to offer and so we hide the darkest parts of ourselves when we should be reaching out. From my personal experience, unearthing the bad has always lead to greater good. let me personally recount the ways it is beneficial to you:

reason 1) misery loves company. no matter how hard you try to be emo, you secretly wish for people to be around to help you out. those people would be your family members because it is essentially their duty. I promise you that friends won't; they have no reason to if they are not obligated. Your family signed a contract in flesh and blood to be there for you, take them up on it

reason 2) you can actually heal; then you won't have need to hide anything because there won't be anything to hide.

reason 3) if you hold it in, the problem will fester.

reason 4) I'm awesome and I told you to do it.

reason 5) your family really loves you and they do actually want to help

now, stop being a sissy. whatever your problems are that you are currently grappling with, I would advise you to take them to your family and sort them out. You really aren't as misunderstood as you make yourself out to be. "I'm misunderstood" is basically a pathetic excuse not to take a course of action. Also, if you are wondering whatever happened about the chicken story, I waited a year to tell my sister. By then she had a new chicken and I figured the repercussion wouldn't be as strong as when she was freshly grieving. did it work? yes, yes it did.