Hello. How ’bout that ride in? I guess that’s why they call it Sin City. Wait, wrong opener.
My name is Michelle and I am a girl and I go to UC Davis. I’m supposed to write columns until the end of the academic year, or until my totally cute new editor responds negatively to my subtle attempts at molestation. Grabbing ass is my way of keeping sexual harassment in The Aggie at an equilibrium.
I’m stoked to be back, and grateful this paper is apparently the kind of pop stand that rehires those who pass out on sidewalks in front of their future bosses. At 7 p.m. God bless student-run organizations and this wonderful institution called college in general.
It’s his 21st today, so hopefully if all goes according to plan, he’ll be passing out on the sidewalk in front of yours truly and we can call it even. Happy birthday, Adam.
Now, as I’m sure you’ve wondered countless times what the essential elements are of an introductory column, here it goes.
Quote a dead historical figure in order to sound intelligent.
Alexis De Tocqueville (a dude, just so we’re clear) wrote, in 1840, “Nothing but a newspaper can drop the same thought into a thousand minds at the same moment.”
In this age of such personalities as Perez Hilton and Ann Coulter, it seems that everyone has an opinion and no lack of medium through which to express it. I appreciate being able to reach you guys via The Aggie, a newspaper that is nearly unavoidable on campus.
There really is nothing like picking up a paper outside of Wellman on your way to class, plus, reading the paper makes you look kind of smart and undeniably sexy.
Offer an opinion.
Overrated: Tapping a keg and watching football. Underrated: Tapping a keg and watching the freshmen work a bike circle.
Throw out advice.
College has its ups and downs. You can be crying like a 12-year-old girl at the end of Oprah’s latest book club pick because your computer died and took your eight-page term paper with it at 4:30 in the morning.
The next, you can be doing cross-knee releases on a frat house stripper pole for shits and giggles. Or, you know, whatever it is that rocks your socks. Don’t ask me how and/or why these things happen. Just embrace it as the twisted humor of life.
Also, I crossed night-swimming and waking up on a roof in Chico off my bucket list this summer, neither of which I recommend doing until the weather hits the 90-degree bracket again.
State three random facts about your vain little self.
I know people who would crawl naked across broken glass for Gaga tickets, but I would rather someone just give them to me because I’m lazy and stingy. I fookin’ love Oasis and yes, they will be reuniting when they run out of drug money. I think, “Hey, does this rag smell like chloroform to you?” is a hilarious pickup line but would never seriously use it, so if you’re a feminist looking to pick a fight … don’t.
A thought occurred to me the other day while I was coasting along the coast. I’m no mathematician, but let’s say, theoretically, that I live to be 86 years old. I want a nice, lengthy life, of course, so I can get a discount at the movies and hit up a couple of cruises. The downside, though, is not being able to go to the bathroom on my own, so I’m not looking to hit the triple digits.
In any case, college lasts four years for most, making it only 4.7 percent of my self-projected time on this planet. Imagine that. Consider how so much is condensed into such a seemingly insignificant fraction of your lifespan. Crappy as it may be to realize that there’s an expiration date on the wonderful madness, fit everything in. Live like Ferris. I have faith in you.
MICHELLE RICK doesn’t want your swine flu so don’t touch her unless you use Purell first. And Lysol your keyboard before you e-mail her at firstname.lastname@example.org.