Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

The first time I ever took some one's keys away, I was just a few weeks into my freshman year of college.

I know drunk driving must have been a issue when I was in high school, but it was on a different scale, because there wasn't the regular activity of pre-gaming and then going downtown. We went to parties, did shots in people's kitchens, drank Everclear mixed with coke because it was cheap and lasted twice as long. People would gather at one place and basically have a huge lock in. It was a caused by a couple of factors. In a small town where the cops don't have much to do, every one had a heightened paranoia about being pulled over and arrested. There was no where to enjoy your drunkenness except for the place where you were already drunk. If you went home, you went to your parent's home, so you might as well just sleep it off and face them sober.

I'm not a stickler for the rules, but I do feel pretty strongly about drunk driving. I've always been vehemently against it. And before I moved to Athens, I assumed this was an issue that my peers and I more or less universally agreed upon. However, just like realizing how much groceries actually cost, worrying about health insurance, and coming to terms with your parents being just human like the rest of us, part of growing up is understanding that everyone—even people you like, people you love, and people you truly admire—makes bad decisions on a regular basis. More often than learning from them they actually learn nothing from them. Especially when there are no immediate ill consequences.

However, when I was new freshman, I was still charmingly naïve. Years of PSAs and television dramas had actually convinced me that you could keep someone from driving drunk if you were determined enough, and had determined that no one would ever drive drunk on my watch.

My roommate at the time, Sonya, had a bunch of her friends visiting from her hometown, and staying with us in our tiny dorm room. They pre-gamed in our room and then it was time to head downtown.

The original plan was to walk, but standing in front of the building, facing the trek down the hill, the group, pretty drunk and unruly, decided to drive. Although I was pretty much sober, I don't remember how I managed to get the keys from the driver, but I clearly remember what happened next. Read More »

A House Christmas Eve Tradition. Read More »

It's not often that a class assignment leaves your faith in humanity shattered.

Tonight, as an part of an assignment for my Social Psychology class, I had to go on campus to view The Experiment, a dramatized version of an experiment set up like the famous 1971 Stanford Prison Experiment.

We wanted to see what the psychological effects were of becoming a prisoner or prison guard. To do this, we decided to set up a simulated prison and then carefully note the effects of this institution on the behavior of all those within its walls....
Our study of prison life began, then, with an average group of healthy, intelligent, middle-class males. These boys were arbitrarily divided into two groups by a flip of the coin. Half were randomly assigned to be guards, the other to be prisoners.

In the movie, things escalate to an exaggerated, Hollywood-esque high boiling point. However, many of the early events in the film were lifted right from the original real experiment, namely, systematic and sadistic humiliation of the “prisoners” by the “guards”.

I honestly haven't felt this sick and upset by events having nothing to do with me since seeing the film taken of the Milgram experiment, in which participants were admonished by authority figures to deliver what they believed to be possibly lethal electric shocks to other participants (actually actors working as confederates).

It's disheartening that, despite all our claims of individualism and our confidence in our own free will, I am reminded that given certain situations, nearly anyone can be molded, devalued, given anonymity, shaped by group-think, their will beaten down, or else, made to do things that go against their own conscience.

My plan was to come home and study for my test on Wednesday, but honestly I feel so nauseated I can't concentrate.

I probably wouldn't be so strongly affected, of course, if I was in more of a happy-go-lucky mood lately. What I really need at this time is reminders that life is indeed worth living; all I seem to be getting is avowals that it's not.

Today, in an in-class discussion on why we as readers like autobiographies, (why do we care? why does the author choose this as a subject?), I brought in the idea that reading someone else's true story, while many things, is largely voyeuristic.

“We just love to see what is going on in other people's lives. To catch a glimpse of that which we wouldn't normally see.”

I mentioned that I have a website where I tell my stories about my life, “which for some reason, evvvverybody reads, even though I don't think I'm that fascinating—”

My hilarious and well-mannered Comparitive Lit teacher cut me off, laughing, “—and yet you put it on the web!“

This whole exchange is priceless for two reasons: first, Jenna Tollerson actually stating that she doesn't find herself fascinating is a flat-out lie, and nothing more than an excercise in modesty for the sake of appearing humble. Of course I find myself fascinating; just here (not even counting things scrawled in notebooks or things typed but never published) I have nearly four years of exhaustive self-reflection, analysis and storytelling where the central and most important subject is me. I've written exhaustively on Jenna Tollerson; here is normally where I would pick an entry to make a self-referencial link to but how could you pick just one. I mean really.

The second reason this is so funny is whenever I bring the site up, especially in a group setting where not many people actually know me (such as a class, the perfect example for the point I'm trying to make), I always feel like a corporate whore for jennatollerson.com, like the confederate in a focus group, or even more apt, like some really obvious paid-for product placement in a blockbuster movie. You're supposed to pretend it's not advertising, but everyone watching gets the feeling they are being marketed to. The only way I could feel more like a walking advertisement is if I had written the URL on the board and instructed everyone to go there as there was a potential they could win fabulous prizes just for visiting!

Of course, the idea of my writing as a marketable product is only another demonstration of how great I believe I really am; if it wasn't for my inability to perform at all well academically, I might become overconfident and turn into a big jerk. So thank goodness for the hell that is University, eh?

I am supposed to be writing my take-home exam. I'm hoping silly B&W pictures may help with my writer's block?

I really wish I wasn't in school right now.

My sister, the rock star, is in the red and black today. Read it and revel in her awesomeness.

Things have been mostly good, even if there has been almost nothing to write about. Work, school, work, school, the routine only sometimes punctuated with sleep, hanging out in bars, or watching The Sopranos on DVD. I am the busiest I have ever been, with three fifths of my weekdays beginning at 8 in the morning and ending at 8 in the evening. I feel myself aging at a rate much more rapid than just a couple of years ago, burning the candle at both ends, as it were. But rather than shrink back from the challenge I find myself stepping up, charging at the obstacle that can, at times, seem like a brick wall. (Going full speed all the time causes many periods of accidental and unplanned unconsciousness, a factor that sunk me last week, academia-wise.)

Sometimes I wonder if I've taken on too much, gotten in over my head, a thought hastened by the naysayers (I shall not name names) who insist I can't keep up this speed for 3 to 4 more years, who grimace and give me looks and tones that say what the hell have you done? I smile sweetly I say that I'm certain that I can handle it, and privately I regard the whole situation as a trial by fire or a rite of passage, ultimately a pathway to some semblance of self-respect.

I also try to constantly remind myself that I could be working much, much harder with the payoff being much, much less.

In the meantime, I (usually) have weekends as a reprieve from all the madness. This weekend I saw a lot of people and consumed a whole lot of whiskey. Friday night found me drinking with my co-workers, which, besides yielding many free drinks also ended with me walking home with two roses purchased for me (from the “rose lady” that most Athenians are familiar with) by two of the aforementioned co-workers.

Saturday night I went to Sarah's show at DT's. A coworker of Sarah's was sitting with my parents, and just before introducing himself (Chris, a lovely doctoral student who was pleasantly fresh with me throughout the evening) gave up his own seat for me. As we shook hands, leaning in to hear names over the music, he looked at me agape and exclaimed, “You smell—You smell AWESOME.” I grinned and blushed like a schoolgirl. That was possibly the highlight of my interactions that evening, excepting my phone conversation with HGB, which is always a pleasure all it's own.

I. Dig Your Own Hole.

Due to my especially caustic and matter-of-fact nature, I outright insulted the music taste of a dear friend on Saturday, calling him, as I recall, “a type”, protesting that he only enjoyed pretentious alternative rock, and pinning down that he is obviously a big Radiohead fan. Which is all true. So why do I feel bad about saying it?

II. Kissing Cousins.

Besides the inherent way you relate to them, I think this is the big difference between having men for best friends (read: family without blood relation) instead of women:

You don't have very sexy dreams about one of your female friends that, while pleasant (read: hot.) at the time, upon awaking leave you feeling quite uncomfortable and possibly incestuous. At least, I don't have those kinds of dreams about my female friends.

I'm going to blame it on the drunk sleep and never speak of it again.

III. Vanilla Caramel Cologne

Even though it was Monday morning, 8 am class, I was excited about going to class this morning. I felt that the week was rich with possibility. I sat at one of the ridiculous constructed desk-and-chair-in-ones in the classroom and waited, taking out my new spiral notebook and pen, eager to learn.

We had a paper to hand back, and instead of having us pass them to the front from where we sat (which would have made so much sense and which I so wished had happened), my teacher invited us to walk up and hand them them in.

Standing from one of these previously mentioned desk-and-chairs has never been a very easy feat for me. It seems I possess the grace of a baby elephant in these circumstances, and today was no exception.

I made movements to stand. The desk wobbled. The coffee which sat on my desk wobbled, and tipped. Verona blend coffee and Vanilla Caramel coffee mate went all over my desk, all over my new notebook, but worst of all, all over the right side of my person.

I exclaimed “Shit!” at what I believe was a clearly audible level no doubt heard throughout campus, and stood completely, attempting to keep my cool. Covered in coffee, I approached my teacher, handed him my paper, and promptly left the room in search of paper towels.

I returned and attempted to clean up, but no matter how much I cleaned more coffee seemed to come from somewhere. Even when I did get everything up, the desk where I sat was sticky, and worse, I was sticky. And I smelled like coffee, an increasing unpleasant odor that begin to fill the room, or at least permeate the air around me in a way in which I couldn't escape it.

I had to pretend that this was a completely normal day for me, and when I left to go to my next class, I had to calmly walk down Baldwin Street, sunglasses and headphones on, smoking a cigarette, pretending that the coffee stain covering the right side of my torso was the new cool thing.

I can only hope that the school year will go up from here.

Yesterday, in celebration of former-roommate-Melissa's birthday, we sat on her and former-roommate-Emily's living room floor (there is no couch there yet), eating chocolate cake, listening to vintage polka music on vinyl. The air conditioning was broken, it was 85 degrees, and for long spans of time no one talked. It was like a avant guarde European short film made to illustrate the futility of life. But it was definitely the most relaxed party I've been to in a long time.

...

One of the interesting things about living downtown is the fact that laundry day involves going to into the bars that share your building, asking bartenders to change dollars for quarters.

...

Work is not great right now. I myself follow the “don't get dooced” rule, so I won't say much other that I've become very disillusioned with the entire ordeal.

...

The new apartment still rules.

...

It is so surreal to me that while it was not my intention for it to be so, a post to my website somehow passes for a real apology. It doesn't feel real.

...

Classes start again for me on Friday. I was seriously motivated about a month ago, but lately I feel like I'm slipping. I can't organize my thoughts, I can't seem to move on certain things. I feel frozen, locked in place, or maybe even held down by some physic weight.

Of course, this is every August, like clockwork. And hopefully, like clockwork, it'll pass.

I just wish I could remember to watch for it, before I lose what little control I seem to exercise over my own wild psychosis.

The first step is to stop being such a drama queen. Stop feeding it. Stop looking for sympathy, stop trying to be so tragic. It's not romantic, it's sad and desperate.

So stop.

I have found that, out of pure laziness, my blue flip flops (my first-ever pair of flip flops, mind you) go with everything, even when they don't go with everything. This enables me to avoid the whole tying/velcro/fastening that comes with all my other shoes, which is so tiresome.

The new job is going well. I have noticed that in my office, going full time is a feeling not unlike finally being let in on some private joke. I'm not sure what the joke is, exactly, but I feel like I know the punchline.

Because I fucked around so much last year school-wise (long story short, I failed more classes than I passed), I am no longer eligible for financial aid. I therefore have no freakin’ clue how I am going to pay for my tuition. I am contemplating starting a Dropcash campaign. We at the House are not above begging.

Despite my best efforts, all I talk about now is interest rates, debt, investing, and how stressed out my current financial situation is making me. I just need to remember that if I can get through the next six months, it is all downhill from there.

I am moving July 31st. Across the street. I am way excited, even though I will have no real furniture for awhile due to the while tuition fiasco. However, I will be living alone. I firmly believe that a lack of roommates is a sure sign of adulthood. Even if you manage the whole being-an-adult thing quite poorly, like myself.

Friends, romans, countrymen: if you would like to help me move, I am offering lunch and/or dinner and/or beer and/or something more scandalous. All you have to do is save the date; I really don't own that much stuff so it shouldn't be tons of work. Very minimal amount of marching across the street with heavy objects. Do get in touch, lovelys.

Starting next week I will be working from 11 AM to 8 PM. So when you call me at 7:30 and I tell you I'm still at work, please do not be surprised. It'll be totally status quo.

Whew. I am way boring lately.

“Don't forget you are going to help me plan my future tonight, okay?” I yell up to Abie's loft while she's trying to have an international conversation.

“I know, we're going to get high and plan your future.
“Not in that order, though.”

The basic idea (with some can't-talk-about-it-yet ulterior motives) was to map out what I have left to take in order to just graduate, already!

Abie, my dear Abie, did all of the legwork, and I sat and watched her, confused. I am indebted to the redhead, of course. She figured most of it out.

I'm putting it in writing so I have to commit to it: if I'm not out by December of 2007, I will most certainly be out by May of 2008. This is going to happen by picking the pace back up just a bit, taking summer classes, and a fair amount of determination on my part.

Now that I have a date, an idea of what I have to do, I'm much more motivated to go ahead and knock it out. Its not an impassable obstacle but just some hurdles to jump. No problem.

“Abie, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to graduate.”