And We Turn to Drugs

I have a lot to say about my stress issues and it might sound complaining, so I'll talk about magazine first. My sophomore year, I had a haven. It sheltered me from the outside. It wasn't entirely safe on the inside either. There were still discontent and hatred and dramatic ongoings, but they were outweighed by the passion and common bond we shared. The Jlab was a place where people shouted, cried, slept, laughed, listened, and on occaision, wrote. There was more stress in that room than any place I've ever been or would care to visit. That didn't matter. What did matter was the fellowship that we all shared in.

We were all charged with the task of putting out a newspaper every three weeks. Sure, people do it everyday, but for students, with limited time, resources, and knowledge, it was not an easy task. To add it to the frustration, there were hormones raging about, alliances being formed, and staffers slacking off. It was the combination of these dispositions (most self-inflicted) that united us. We were the newspaper staff. We put out the paper. The experiences we shared were important. We wrote kudos, listened to punk rock, quoted Dane Cook, made bad jokes, ate pizza, stayed for work nights, came in for distribution, paid our fines for foul language, took a field trip, and we were a family. Mike, Kim, Laurie, Danny, Iris, Brit, Eric, Zach, Kelly, Kim, Becca, Rianna, Tiffany, Kelly, Michelle, and Ashley. I didn't like all of these people. But I do miss being around them all.

I don't feel a deep love-hate relationship with the staff this year. We all are too formal. We don't mad and yell at people. We don't order in food and stay late, we just get it done. And while we're more effective, we're less affected.

In a monarchy, there's a leader who has to make executive decisions. Our head was Mike. He took more criticism and hatred than I thought possible. If something went wrong, it was his fault; if something went right it was the job of the writers. It wasn't fair and tortured one person, but that person had supreme power for a year. Their word was law. When there is no chief, the power is divided among those that remain. This oligarchy has diffused the power of an editor. I don't know what is going on in that class. I only know that we need money still, and we can't publish until we have it. I don't know what is going on the website, what the Hi-times is doing, or what the sections of the magazine are. I am an editor. I have no power. I am an empty title. I am an editor, but I'm not. I am a business manager. The problem with this system is that it is effective. We're putting out a newsletter each week, the website is updated daily, and the magazine is slowly but surely coming together. We have had minimal problems. And I hate it.

The problem isn't in the system, it's in me. I am old-fashioned. I am trying to make it what it was and not what it is. I might be the only one. Newspaper is dead. Magazine is a class. And now I need to accept it, but I'll hold on to my denial for a little while longer out of stubborness.




Now, I guess this will be a long post. This week has been the hardest yet. It started on Monday, like most weeks do. Work followed by homework kept me up until 2am. Tuesday was a rerun of Monday. Then on Wednesday, 4 hours a night of sleep caught up with me. I was stressed, hungry, cranky, and tired. I went to Niles Haunted House, but I was too tired to be normal and I was increasingly annoying. By the time I got home it was all too much. I still had several hours of homework left to do. And it was all too much. I couldn't take it and I broke down. Thursday was a better day, I was still stressed and tired, but I had lots of prescriptions that were meant to cure me of my errors. And Friday was the first decent day. I have only had half the amount of sleep I should have gotten this week, and I still managed to mess up a very important assignment. It is all just getting deeper. Soon we will know if I will sink or swim. And either way, there's only discontent. I posted a very detailed account on myspace about my breakdown on Wednesday. It was almost poetic. My inability to keep my eyelids up is now conflicting with my will to type, so I am going to leave you here.

Today's Confession: I wouldn't call me back either.