I spent my Sunday cleaning, as I do most Sundays after the Chargers’ season prematurely ends.  Bathrooms, vacuum, bedroom, laundry, etc.

I transport the laundry from the dryer in two shifts because unfortunately, my arms aren’t long enough to wrap themselves around the entire pile of hot cotton.

Just two seconds ago, I took one half to my bedroom to fold.  Between the time I placed the lump onto my bed and turned around to gather the rest, I absentmindedly forgot that I had done this.  I took the second half of the laundry to my Dad’s room and folded it.

I got indescribably pissed after I walked past my bedroom and realized I was only halfway through playing maid for the household.  And, it was due to my own stupidity that it now seemed as if I had twice as much laundry weighing my to-do list down.

On an unrelated note, my Dad just asked me to cook dinner, but advised me to take all of the tennis balls out of the oven before I preheat it.

I think this entire family has taken too much Clorox to the dome.

In Communications yesterday, the class was asked to each individually get up and give a two minute speech about someone who has made him or her “look at [themselves] differently” or whatever.  While my class furiously scrawled their ideas onto paper in preparation, I propped my feet up on the desk in front of me and waited, confident that I wouldn’t have to volunteer.  The class, after all, was quite large for a “small section”.

3 minutes before class ended, my TA announced that we “have time for one more!”  And who does she volunteer?  “Jamie, let’s hear from you.”

I muttered, “Shit,” loudly and dragged my feet to the front of the room.  I stumbled through some bullshit about my overconfidence and laziness, until one day my Dad stopped me and said, “Yeah… you’re not as tight as you think you are,” which eventually evoked some type of work ethic in me.  I delivered that line hoping that humor would be my life-vest for it was clear that I was sinking quickly.

…I think I got one (?) chuckle out of the crowd.

When I was walking back to my seat I quickly slipped in, “If it weren’t for my Dad, I probably would be off prostituting myself or something.”

From that, I got a full chorus of gasps.

It’s usually difficult for people to understand my type of humor when they first meet me — actually, the first several times they meet me.  I’m slowly becoming a pro at coming off like a complete douche the first few weeks of each new semester.

I’m pretty sure my Comm class thinks I’m crazy.

I found out late last semester that not only was the joke of an English class I was enrolled in one I had already been accredited for, but my major of choice required a minor.  I was confined in the Academic Advising waiting room for thirty minutes just to have them slap me in the face.  Metaphorically, of course.

And while I was there, the only thing I had to pass the time was a stack of Forbes magazines lying on the table.  I’m assuming that they chose this particular subscription to inspire the many students of SDSU who file through that waiting room on the daily.  Y’know, let them all know that, “Hey!  Follow your dreams!  College is here for you to major in whatever you choose to pursue!  But, mu’fucka, whatever you choose better get you in this magazine, ‘cuz money makes the world go ‘round and shit.”

Thus begins my journey down Find Yourself Road.  I’ve planned out my next two semesters to systematically take a jab at each promising minor.  The first on my list of Minor Auditions: Theater Arts.  (Get it?  Auditions, theater arts?  I’m so clever.)

So I’m sitting in Little Theater 161, the locale of my newest endeavor.  This relatively normal guy comes in a little tardy and stumbles down the ramp to my particular row.  After not-so-gracefully stepping over my leather bag and French book, he plops himself down in the seat next to me.

About an hour into class, Charlie — I’ve decided to name him Charlie, go with me on this — bends over into his bag.  I glance over at Chuck but quickly return my attention to the front of the room, where my professor was enthusiastically shouting about Orson Welles.  Suddenly, through my peripheral vision, I notice that good ol’ Chuckaroo had whipped out a knife.

I don’t think he noticed my initial “WHAT THE FUCK” reaction as I kept the alarmed squeal inside my head but I’m sure he noticed my casual nudging to the gal on my left, attempting to make notice of what was happening about an inch to my right.

Then Charles took out an old fashioned wooden pencil and proceeded to go at it with the knife.

Should I run into my pal Charlie ever again, I’ve noted to have a pencil sharpener prepared with the intention of gifting it to him.  The guy scared the living daylights out of me for a whole five seconds.

But, had it been in the cards for me to die this young, I guess going out by getting shanked during theater class wouldn’t be a necessarily uninteresting way to go about it.

…but let’s try avoiding questions that will make me put my prepared noose into use.

Recently, my days have progressed in a rather mundane and repetitive manner.  Wake up, brush teeth, wash face, look into the mirror and try not to break it, etc.  I open up lappy and check my email (which usually contains no new messages, save an Urban Outfitters subscription), Twitter (I care about what my friends have for breakfast), Facebook (to cater to my love of narcissism), but most importantly, I open up Tumblr and look at an empty text post for 20 minutes, close it and cry to myself silently.

In my last desperate attempt to redeem whatever audience my blog has left, I called upon Formspring to be my muse.  And by that, I mean I opened an account and begged strangers via Tumblr and Facebook to ask me some questions that would (hopefully) bring about some inspiration for my fingertips.

This is the gist of what my inbox contains after two days:

Do you feel like you’ve peaked early? Do you feel like you’re not reaching your full potential? Do you feel like you’ve already reached it? Does it kill you? Do you feel like you’re dying? Do you want to?

And to answer your question: Maybe.  Yes.  Kinda.  Yes.  A little.  Now I do.

Just kidding on that last one.

But thanks for the kick in the ass.  A kick that, I’m sure, will prevent me from sitting for a while.  Now, I feel like I just have to prove my doubters wrong.  I did not peak too early, it’s just time for me to evolve into whatever new persona I’m trying to achieve.  One that does not only contain music updates and anecdotes that directly result from the excessive consumption of alcohol.

But then again, I am only a college student.  A student that attends SDSU (Still Drunk, Still Uneducated) no less, a.k.a. the third party school in the nation.

Wait, who am I even kidding?  That school hates me.

It seems I’ve gone off on a tangent…

Anyway, to sum up:

1. I did not peak early.  This is only the beginning.
2. SDSU hates me.
3. Thanks for the question but next time, please word it differently so that it does not involve subsequent years of intense therapy.