I'm a third-year journalism major, and I don't like Mondays. More specifically, I don't like Sunday nights.

It's the feeling of impending doom that gets me. I love my bed, the old Jimi Hendrix records my uncle gave me, and Disney World. And chocolate, orange juice and applesauce (but not all at once.)

I've lived in Gainesville for about 11 years and spent the bulk of that time determined not to go to UF. I remember my first week here after we moved from New Jersey, wondering why there were so many pick up trucks and wishing the orange and blue would disappear.

My determination strengthened after my first day in fourth grade. I opened my notebook and copied what the teacher had written on the board. She suddenly stopped speaking, stared straight at me and asked, "Am I boring you?" Of course I had no idea what to say, so I breathed out a feeble "What?"

And then she asked what I was writing.


My poor, pathetic fourth-grader brain freaked out. I thought I'd done something terribly wrong, that we weren't allowed to take notes, that the teacher was going to hate me forever and give me an F.

She turned to the class and said, "Well, you should all be taking notes!" At this point I knew I had to get out of Gainesville soon or suffer irrepable damage to my intellect.

But in reality, I had just irreparably damaged my social life.