“My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I’m happy. I can’t figure it out. What am I doing right?” –Snoopy

I discovered my purpose as a sophomore in college. I had previously been a graphic design major, but was not a promising student in the eyes of my professors due to a lack of enthusiasm for helvetica. My childhood dream of writing for television was nudging me like an attention-starved dog, so I finally decided to ignore everyone’s advice to “study what you love, but make sure it’s still something that will actually earn you money” and I became an English major.

I didn’t see that woman who delivered me again until my first visit to the ladydoctor. She walked into the examination room with the determination of Lucy Van Pelt and proceeded to take credit for my appearance. I kept my pants on as I told her my hopes and dreams for the future—move to Los Angeles, write for NBC, dethrone Tina Fey, save the world. After my medical history was recorded on her clipboard, she sat on the stool next to me and smiled. She patted my shoulder as I locked eyes with the speculum and she said: “Some day soon, Jordan, you are going to be an artist. And I see I was right about those feet.”

In regards to my last real post, Phillip Phillips won American Idol and now I turn into Mr. Hyde any time someone says they are a fan of his. I apologize if I have frightened you. To ease the tension, here’s an adorable picture of Tahj Mowry.

Now I’m going to go listen to Sam Cooke and eat the last of my graduation chocolate.

I have a major bone to pick with you, America.

Tonight, one of the most talented all-around performers in American Idol history, Joshua Ledet, was sent home in third place.

And next week, if someone as generic as this

wins the title over someone as talented as this

it will only confirm to me that 2012 has become the year of reinvigorated racism.

Why is Rue black?

Can I wear a Hoodie?

“A Chink in the Armor”

In more positive news, there are now more minority babies being born in the U.S. than white babies. So I’ll cling to that next week if the pretty white boy wins.

No. 2 

Paul tells us to begin with a chart that outlines what is important to us, but my chart is just full of my favorite childhood movies and my adoration for red velvet cupcakes. So instead I begin with who I wish I was. I wish I took more risks. I wish I was destined for something bigger. I wish I had a jive talking iguana as a companion and a penchant for time travel. This is how my movie begins—with my own perceived shortcomings.

No. 12

Brent claims he never writes characters based on real people. He says he wants to avoid the potential awkwardness and inevitable conflict of someone discovering that their demeanor and habits have been immortalized in film, but I think he’s full of it. As cliché as it is, you write what you know. You can’t write an egomaniac unless you know an egomaniac. You can’t write a neurotic headcase unless you know a neurotic headcase. You can’t write a douche unless you know a douche. Though perhaps in Brent’s case, he need only look within.

No. 26

Paul told Cynthia that her screenplay lacked focus. It lacked drama. It lacked a likable lead character. The protagonist was dull and weak and nobody would want to see themselves in her. Cynthia’s hands tensed over the keyboard as she quietly informed him that the lead character was based on herself. Paul told her she had some delightful descriptive sentences and quickly left our table.