People I Meet (I don't actually meet them, I'm too shy for that)(Turns Out I Don't Do That)

Hello avid readers, I have to warn you, this blog will probably be pretty terrible, ranking down there with "If I was a Super Villain." I am doing this to alleviate the suffering of a friend who is trapped in a land of fakers and heartbreakers. I feel his pain, even though I'm here in Lubbock with tons of friends I feel a little left out of the college scene, but hopefully that will get better.

After a month at Tech, I have finally got around to typing the cliched "Here's my Life in College!" post, but it has to be done, it's a Blog Law.

As those of you that know me personally know, I'm living with David and Nick. (For my readers across the nation that is new information)(Rhyme Alert!)

This is a pretty tranquil existence, the only major issue was when I once left an empty bag of popcorn on the floor and David didn't speak to me for 2 days.

As a journalism major my classes are not particularly rigorous, a basic math, intro to mass comm, sociology, history, and music appreciation.

Whenever any adult I ever encounter inevitably asks what my major is and I respond and then I am forced to justify my degree choice I find it very difficult to respond, because, let's be honest, Mass Comm is barely a step above Human Development and Family Studies in terms of degree. The last resort of youth pastors and future teachers. (No offense, but the degree is not difficult)

So, here in my blog (which I can only assume all future employers and acquaintances are reading) I will lay out my future plans.

I am going to graduate, already a cult figure due to the popularity of my blog and pieces in the venerable Daily Toreador.

This will lead to a lucrative editorial position at a magazine in a cool city like Austin, Nashville, or New York, where my incredible wit, intelligence, writing ability, sports knowledge, pop culture savvy, and charming anecdotes will cause me to be labeled the next Bill Simmons/Chuck Klosterman/David Sedaris.

At this point I will develop the wanderlust inherent in brilliance and travel the world (my knack for mastering languages will lead to several foreign women falling in love with me, and hopefully treasure!). During my travels I will have all sorts of experiences that would look super meanigful and poignant when overlayed with Sigur Ros or the Shins, and hopefully start a revolution (musical or political) and return home safely.

I will then write about these experiences and sell them to GQ, where I will be offered a job.

That will begin my "New York" phase, where I gallavant around the city making money and connections, all while dressing impeccably.

Soon I will become cooly disenfranchised and return to Texas to reconnect with the Earth. I will travel the trails as a cowhand, never revealing my true identity (and getting totally ripped as well).

When I get tired of working the land (which will be soon cause i'm kind of a puss) I will buy a house and work on my first book of essays in dark room on a typewriter, clouded in pipe smoke.

After the book is released, things really get going. My genius will be fully recognized by literary critics, sexy indie girls, and people that listen to NPR.

This will lead to a booming social life, and not because I am a famous writer, because I am actually that awesome.

Also, anyone that was ever mean to me or didn't appreciate me will take a long hard look at themselves and realize that they are just big failures.

And every girl who has ever rejected me will look over at their sloppy husbands and sigh and wonder what could have been, they will want me back, but it'll be too late, I'll be marrying my author/doctor/chef wife, who is also a model. And she's in a band, a good one named after an obscure punctuation mark or Kafka short story, and she won't be the singer cause girl bands suck, she'll play bass or something. And when they play at Madison Square Garden I will come onstage and just pull off the most bitchin' tambourine solo.

After my first book comes out and I am regarded as the preeminent essayist in the United States I will start work on my novel.

The novel is gonna be pretty bad-a, it will be dark and gritty, but hilarious, and actually hilarious, not just retarded like American Psycho. Think Chuck Palanhiuk but without all the rape. Also there will probably be either a wizard or big foot.

The novel will come out and I will be called things like, "grasps emotion better than Foer," "More sinister than McCarthy," "Best satire since Swift," "a Chobsky for people with testicles," "Gaimanesque storytelling," "wordier than Faulkner!," "The American Hemingway who didn't write all his books in Paris," and, "Makes Shakespeare look like a faggot."

After this book comes out I try my hand at self producing/directing/writing/starring in a feature film. The film comes out and I am a critical and commercial darling, like Diablo Cody but with talent.

After all this wild success, you'd think I may develop an ego. Well you'd be wrong, I would not only be the nicest guy in Hollywood, I'd be the nicest guy anywhere. And I'd impress you with my humility.

I'd then return to Texas and get back to my roots. I'd get to work on a departure from my previous literary excursions with a book on theology and spirituality. It would be lauded as better than Miller, Bell, McLaren, Chesterton, Lewis, Spurgeon, Luther, and Aquinas. People would read it and finally "get it."

Then after all my success I would disappear and spend the rest of my days as an anonymous music critic with my wife and family, occassionally releasing new books under a pseudonym, like I already do, as John Grisham.