You step onto the bus, find your way toward an empty seat in the back, look toward the floor and notice the new smudge on your shoe, open your bag, careful not to bump into the shoulder of your neighboring passenger, retrieve your newspaper, fold the paper in half, read the articles, no matter whether the words interest you or whether you read these same pages hours earlier, and continue on your way.You nodded to the busdriver but continued on your way. You don't know why this man drives a bus, if he escapes work to a house with wife and children or an untouched apartment, if he reads, who he rooted for in the last World Series, if he has ever been to Europe, or what his friends call him when they're playing poker Friday night.

You step off the bus and toward your doorstep, anticipate the moment you can take off your shoes and sweaty socks, pour yourself a glass of water, sink into the couch as the television urges you to call Verizon for your cell phone needs, and continue on your way. You glanced at the woman with two young children at her ankles but continued on your way. You don't know whether she's taking her children to the grocery store or to a friend's house or to their father's new home, if her kids say "please" and "thank you" or "now!" and "Damn it!", how her life compares to the dreams she had as a child, when the last time was that she saw her mother, if she is a vegetarian, or what she would do if she had a month free from her daily life.

You get off the couch and go with your friends at one of those restaurants that serves baby back ribs and beer, complaining to your friends about a busy day and rapping with the latest Nelly single during the drive. You exit the 1994 Ford Escort and continue on your way. You stared at the gorgeous blonde standing alone out front while constantly checking her watch but continued on your way. You don't know if she waits for four girlfriends or her boyfriend of three years, what her young aspirations are in school, if she has ever gone bungee jumping in Seattle, how frequently she goes to church, if she ever got into big shouting matches with her younger brother, whether she will order the tossed salad or the medium well burger, or how many people have told her they loved her.

You laugh with tears at the details of your buddy's latest adventure, and when the waitress approaches to take your orders, you explain that you want the baby back ribs and a Corona, await the rest of your friend's story, and continue on your way. You briefly made eye contact with your waitress but continued on your way. You don't know whether she is a student close to her financing degree or a single mom struggling to afford that barbie jeep her daughter wants, if she is a natural redhead, what she would eat if she had her choice of anything on that menu she memorized long ago, if she loves hot showers or warm bubble baths, why she spent that night in jail, if she chases her dog in the backyard, what her last name is, how content she finds her surroundings.

And you continue on your way.

Our tuition at work: Coming soon to the University of Florida campus...

People Awareness Week

We could probably find a worse singer in New York, but this guy has to be the funniest. I can't stop laughing at the first three notes!

I want to be evergreen, alive all year round.

From Today's Super Bowl Party
"My New Year's Resolution is to become hot again."
"I'm semi-bullimic. I purge, but I forget to binge."
"I think the healthiest thing for us is to have hate sex." (A Bucs fan to a Raiderette)
"What's the theme of this halftime show... music you used to like?"
"I thought you were going to win the Super Bowl before the Bucs did. No, seriously. You personally."
"I think John Madden died five years ago, and they're just replaying those Madden video games."
"Ah, shut up! He has a kid, so now you like him!" (Disgruntled Raider fan, in response to the "Aw's" when they showed Keyshawn Johnson with his son)
"So now after drinking, he always gives me a call when he's breaking the seal."
"Are those real?" "The diamonds or the breasts?" (On Shania Twain's outfit)
"Did you hear that Hugh Hefner has like seven girlfriends?" "Yeah, he must have a great personality." "Yeah, it probably goes down to his knees."
"I don't need them to tell me what I already know! Come on, like how could I live with myself and not know I'm hot? And by hot, you mean fat, right?"
"Get the ax out of the drunk guy's hands."
"I like music like Paul Simon, Tori Amos, Norah Jones, Natalie--- what's her name?--- Merchant, Natalie Merchant... and Jay Z."

Yao Ming (through an interpreter), on being voted into the NBA All-Star game as a starter:
-- "To have this rare opportunity is a rare opportunity."

If I could make out with the cold weather, I would pucker up and be prepared for my tongue to freeze onto the cold's frigid metal surface. Ok, maybe that sounds a bit odd, but what I'm trying to say is that I'm absolutely loving what actually resembles winter weather here in Florida. While I drove home for Christmas break in 78 degree heat, I wondered how much I was missing in not having but 3 weeks of winter a year. I've never gone skiing--- or ridden a sled, for that matter. I rarely have the proper opportunity to sit and stare at a lit fireplace. Only seldom do cute girls bundle up in their hooded sweatshirts and mittens as their cheeks frost bite glow the color of a rose petal (one of the most serene, precious images I know).

And by tomorrow afternoon the temperature will fall to 40 degrees, and by the evening 25, and by the night 15. Maybe I will run through my apartment complex at 1:00 am hollering the lyrics to "Winter Wonderland," or maybe I'll have a hooded sweatshirt and mitten sale. Whatever I do tomorrow, the day is mine.

Sick guy: Excuse me.
Nurse: Yes?
Sick guy: I was wondering if everything is all right back there. I've been waiting out here for a really long time.
Nurse: Do you have an appointment?
Sick guy: Yeah, it was at 3.
Nurse (after looking at the clock that reads 3:35): Well, we're just really full today. Don't worry; we haven't forgotten you.
Sick guy: Oh yeah? What's my name?
Nurse: Umm... (long silence)
Sick guy: See, you did forget me!
Nurse: Well, just take a seat and we'll get you soon.

I've put myself in the position to have a lousy Wednesday. I question my abilities to handle my toughest classroom test (not of the scantron type, but of the keep-up-with-seasoned-scholars type). By Tuesday morning my stomach turns queasy, wondering how I will finish the remainder of my readings, if I will understand them, if I will be able to convey my thoughts into an insightful classroom contribution, if I belong with these scholars, if I actually have an "area of study," if I will still be the weakest link by the end of the semester, if my GPA will slip, if I really know what line of work I want to join, if my professor will be disappointed in my performance, if I was ready to take the giant step from straighforward university courses to debating graduate students, doctors, and lawyers in a graduate seminar.

I'm going to give myself an ulcer if I continue to question myself. This is the test I wanted: I'm finally struggling. Time to step up and untap all the intellect and determination inside me.

Update: I contributed my first intelligent idea to my nine colleagues in this week's seminar. What I said would bore you, but I was psyched to finally feel like I belonged in the class.

My confession:

I baked some brownies this evening. The batch looked moist and chewy when I pulled the trey from the oven. After fifteen minutes of cooling, I picked up the trey, about to cut the individual pieces. It was then that I stumbled and a third of the brownie mass flew from the dish and onto the carpet. My roommates and guests were in the back waiting for their treat, and no one was in the room with me. So I picked the broken mass from the floor, cut it to resemble the other pieces, and returned them to the rest of the batch. At least we vacuumed the floor two days ago.

Everyone agreed the brownies were delicious.

It can be a painful struggle to hold onto tenacity when the evil-doers around you are weak, but you must persevere. When you refuse to succumb to the hate and instead rise above it, you will confirm your own beauty and determination, and in turn you will gain more strength. You will be readily prepared for similar tortures down the road, but you must remember and appreciate the love around you when confronted with hurt. You are loved, you are beautiful, you are special. And while your hardships can feel overwhelming and perpetuating, they are temporary, and they will not outlive all the good in your life.

I'm walking through the supermarket with my spicy barbecue sauce, parmesean cheese, hot sauce, and coconut milk, when I think to myself, no wonder sometimes I get seriously explosive diarrhea.

I thought I lost my journal forever after this little message popped on the screen while I was updating:

Microsoft OLE DB Provider for ODBC Drivers error '80040e14'
[Microsoft][ODBC SQL Server Driver][SQL Server]The log file for database 'blogger' is full. Back up the transaction log for the database to free up some log space.
/functions/updateLastChanged.inc, line 11

Well, I didn't. Good.

Hey Camille, what do you think of this? I wish I had better aim with my spear.

I have lacked confidence in some areas of life, particularly when it's come to women. Sometimes I attribute my invertedness around the opposite sex to my shyness, or my calm demeanor, or my simplicity, or my ploy to be the cute/adorable/quiet one. All these excuses have derived themselves from a deep-down nervousness, a fear of rejection, a belief that the girl I'm interested in would not be the type to be interested in me. So of course I have confirmed those thoughts whenever I introduce a girl to my unconfident, aloof, uneasy representative. I hesitate to make eye contact, mix up the words I try to speak, say something in the ordinary, and go blank. And there I have sat in a room with myself, aware of how stupidly this whole performance is spewing out yet oblivious to any way of redeeming myself, and in the end, I've provided little of anything to intrigue this girl into giving me a confidence boost.

This should not be read as self-pity. This should not be read as a cry for help. This should not even be read in a tragic light. This is a self-revelation from a growing boy, someone who is maturing and evolving. This is the declaration, a big step in my growth of outward confidence: an admittance of my current self, different from my ideal self. Read: the past two months have brought me stronger and more prosperous relationships. I see the world through more attractive eyes, which I greatly owe to a brighter concept of my own self that in turn reflect onto others. But even with this accomplishment, I have plenty of room to further improve.

Today I found myself bursting with energy and confidence thanks to a little personal time where my body just froze and my mind completely took charge. I thought about the people I call my friends and how incredible they are in their own ways. These people possess some of the most admirable traits imaginable. They are kind, loyal, truthful, intelligent, loving, determined, gentile, fun, humorous, passionate, talented, sound, beautiful individuals.

They were all stangers at one point. Eventually we met, conversed, and became friends. I chose them, but more importantly: they chose me. Incredible.

It was the spring of my freshman year when I had Abnormal Psychology every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. The subject matter thrilled me, even when I engulfed the information too deeply and diagnosed myself with each disease we covered. I worried about being histrionic one week, schizophrenic the next. Even when we studied narcissism, I thought, "Finally, this is something I know I don't have," followed by, "Wait, isn't that what a narcissist would think?"

What brought the already amazing course to another level for me was the professor, Dr. Vinson. Soon after I'd sit down, Dr. Vinson would walk in. She had a closet full of the same black top she wore to every class. Her spunk and peppiness would draw you in even during the most boring lectures. She was genuinely cheery, she was very personable, and she was fair. After the final, I thanked her for teaching the course and told her I would see her in the fall. Midway through the semester I had decided to take another class with Dr. Vinson, and after scrolling through the course schedule, settled on Psychology of the Personality: a class where both the subject matter and the professor would fascinate me.

I never saw Dr. Vinson again. I walked into that same classroom in the fall, expecting her to walk through with her smile and black top. Instead, a plump, balding thirty-year-old man plodded through the door. As I can recall, here's how he explained his presence:

"No, as some of you can tell, I am not Dr. Vinson, and if you knew I was teaching this class, you probably wouldn't have signed up for it. For some reason I have a reputation for being too hard, but I'm trying to change that. It'll be tough, so hopefully you're the last class that will have to suffer."

Scared, nervous, disappointed... no, that's not how I felt. Betrayal, anger, amusement... that's closer to the truth. After reviewing the syllabus of ridiculous demands and uninspired learning methods, I daydreamed about racing back to my dorm room and dropping the class. I did exactly that ten minutes later and replaced Psychology of the Personality with Advanced Principles of Criminal Justice, a class I ultimately loved.

Today began the spring semester of my junior year, possibly my next-to-last semester of college. I walked into my first class with similar expectations as when I walked through the Psychology building a year and a half earlier. Last semester I completed Research Methods in Criminology with Dr. Brank. In a few months she inspired and helped me more than any professor yet. I needed her as a professor again, to teach me, to motivate me, to excite me. Three months ago when I studied the spring course schedule, I saw my destiny in between the gibberish of section numbers and meeting places: Psychology and Law, Dr. Brank. A course covering my two favorite subjects, diving into my future profession, being taught by my favorite professor.

Dr. Brank stands at her podium early, about fifteen minutes before class starts, so I expected her to be right by the door as I opened it. The seats were growing crowded with students, but no teacher was in sight. Soon after I took my seat and unpacked my bag of a notebook and black pen, a young, large, plain woman walked through the door. I recognized the lady as a TA in one of my classes from sophomore year. I remembered how rude she was, how apathetic she acted whether discussing criminology or listening to a problem I had with an assignment. I remembered how after months of frustration, I concluded that she would never amount to professor who could inspire me. And here she stood, in front of the class, holding syllabi, only she, with no Dr. Brank in sight. Here I felt stood my omen to a terrible semester: the class and professor I most yearned to have would be replaced by a tepid version of the course taught by a dull professor.

To my delight, I had damned myself prematurely. My former TA explained that she was the TA for this class. As for our professor, Dr. Brank was sitting in a courtroom, called for jury duty, but assured she would return by next week. As for the syllabus, when scanning the area of topics, I almost got physically aroused by the phrase, "Defendant Competence: insanity defense, diminished capacity."

My excitement and enthusiasm carried throughout the first day of classes, as I found potential for fun and benefit in each course. Of course, the potential also exists for sleepless nights of paper writing and library research, but hey, I'm all for the fun and benefit part.

What do you think when you see the guy driving a white Ford Mustang?

I opened the new year with my 2.5 year high school reunion.

Two of my hometown friends invited me to a bbq, but little did I know I would see countless former classmates I had not seen since project graduation. In the field I was surrounded by our old class president, the guy voted most intellectual, the snake and bug collector, the guy I thought looked like a lizard, the girl I had a crush on throughout eighth and ninth grade. We hugged, we laughed, we caught up... and for the most part I was done.

High school is over. I received my diploma in May 2000, but I didn't graduate until later that fall, when I had adjusted to life away at college and realized I was to grow in a life independent of high school. These people are no longer my true friends, no longer the people I choose to have those intimate conversations with, but I enjoy seeing them grow with me. That way, I know I'm not doing it alone.