Text: J-School

It's that time again. No, not annual bathe a mexican day, silly. It's school time! I love mexicans.
See? piso mojado

I'm signed up for the second round of my pre-requisite courses in order to continue my Journalism major and Italian minor. What's funny is that my family, namely my mother and grandma, thought I would probably do something with computers. In fact, everyone I know seems to ask me "I thought you were going into computers?" In which I promptly reply "I guess all the jobs playing Kings Quest VIII were filled." No, I've never replied with that, but I don't understand why playing a couple of computer games qualified me as an IBM motherboard programmer.

Journalism is a little funky. It is one of the harder schools to get into and stay in at CU. You have the ability to apply twice annually. You must have met the minimum requirements before you can do this however. Which includes a competitive GPA (3.3+?), the completion of two pre-requisite courses, and a convincing 500 word essay. After you've applied, you are notified several months later whether or not you were admitted with roughly 200 other students. I am seeking a degree in Journalism with an emphasis on News Editorial.

My ideal job after graduation would most likely be to work for National Geographic. I am hoping that by learning Italian I not only increase my awareness and understanding of other Latin based languages, but that I acquire a job that allows me to travel. That's really the summary of my academic career at this point. It's not entirely interesting. That's why I am going to switch over to the Chronicles of Sweetwater now.

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Chronicles of Sweetwater

Through the mist of 12 o'clock bar smoke lingers the mixed voices of Sweetwater regulars. The rush of three 5'4" waitresses that seem to disappear and reappear through the myriad of people at average height are serving the usual crowd. It typically includes: Devereux, Old Chicago, homeless bikers, horny moms, bug-eyed former sharpshooters that swear they make a living playing shuffleboard, and bar-wenches that are apolstered sometimes with a jail-stripe full-body bathing-suit that apparently is an advertisement reading "If you Karaoke Uncle Kracker I will grind with the first dirty man that hasn't bothered to look at my face yet"; don't forget overly-tattoo'd christian fanatics, poolshark magicians, drunk bloated hitler look-a-likes and anyone else that might fit in this spectrum. The evening is devoid of the antics of a drunk step-dad, but one thing is for certain, the patron-saint of Sweetwater, Eric Walker, should not drive. He has consumed his usual 5 to 6 pitchers and 2 to 3 shots. This is the same holy formula used to transform Walker from being able to recognize basic conversational English to interrupting people with random business propositions, namely the publishing of his auto-biography as told by those who document his drunken escapades--since he can't recall.

(More to come later. Homework time.)