Article on College Humor

Eulogy for Fraternity Brother Who Loved Family Guy

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I started a livejournal

After I moved to New York I made good friends with the Internet. I post on my livejournal now:

http://jillmorris.livejournal.com

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Call Me Harry Houdini

After 6 months of being locked out of MySpace account, I am back. I am a magician of the Internet.

6:25 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Chicago--12 Miles

We left Austin on Saturday at 11pm. We have been riding in this 1998 Ford Escort for the past 19 hours--all five of us (and my laptop). A sign tells me there are only 12 miles to Chicago. A whiff of myself tells me I need to shower.

We've conquered 1100 miles. We own the highways of this great nation of the United Fuckin' States of America. And it feels fantastic.

The following things, however, do not feel fantastic: my neck, my back, the pimple I popped at the rest stop in St. Louis, and my sticky skin. You see, I have been riding in the back, middle seat the entire twenty-hour drive. What a bitch.

Some may argue that I'm the center of conversation. After all, I get to actively engage in all topics of discussion. Others may argue that I am a martyr to The College Road Trip. This can't be true because I don't plan on dying, and I'm not in college.

But, screw my rambling....We're here.

Chicago is beautiful. There are tall, tall buildings everywhere that look like they are straight out of a movie, and they probably are. I see people riding bikes by the lake, and it makes me wish I still knew how to ride one. For the first time in hours, the car is truly silent. The radio is off. No one is playing dumb car games. Everything is perfect, even this terribly uncomfortable seat.

This is all so wonderful, and I can not wait to see what my week here is like. I could have ridden here on the roof, tied to the luggage rack with a red ball gag in my mouth. It would have all been worth it. Chicago: The Windy Apple!

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Boys! Boys! Boys!

Men have always distracted me. Love may be a two-way street, but I cant drive for shit because I'm too busy thinking about boys.

Have you ever been a boy I liked?

Perhaps you are Justin Green. Hey, Justin, do you remember that time in elementary school, when fate miraculously dealt us the same Scholastic book order sheet? You told me how much you enjoyed Goosebumps. We laughed and talked for hours about R.L.Stine "ruling" and Christopher Pike
"drooling." Oh, what fun! Then, the very next day, (like a fool) I brought you the entire series--82 books. This included, but was not limited to: The Blob That Ate Everyone; One Day At Horrorland; Lets Get Invisible; Stay Out of The Basement; It Came From Beneath The Sink!; and Say Cheese or Die. I thought for sure our mutual love for R.L. Stine would unite us in holy matrimony, but then your stupid parents got divorced and you moved. I miss you.

Perhaps you are Matt Rilley. Hey, Matt, do you remember that time in middle school when I put those not-at-all-dorky secret admirer notes in your locker everyday for a week? Each letter was a new, more revealing clue as to my true, stuffed-bra-wearing identity. I crafted each note with care--many requiring the advanced clipart of Corel 5. After all, I didn't want my early 90's graphics to scream I'm outdated! They needed to be tasteful--as I had high, apple pie-in-the-sky hopes that you'd take me to the big fall dance. And that maybe youd feel me up afterwards. But, my stuffed Target bra was never graced by your hands. Sadly, you blew off the dance to get stoned with the 8^th graders. I forgive you.

Or, perhaps you are the boy I like right now. Hey, remember yesterday when you fell asleep in my bed, and I tried to give you that handjob while you were sleeping? I'm awfully sorry about that. I know we're just friends. (Best friends!) And, trust me, I was just as frightened as you were when you woke up. Let me make it up to you with a bottle of Yellowtail (our favorite!) And, who knows, maybe our thighs will accidentally touch again on my apartment couch while were watching that movie and/or television show we've been looking forward to seeing. I love you.

11:51 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Cut It Out

During my cuter years, all the grownups would stop me and say things like, "My, what long, beautiful curls you have!" and "Is your hair tired? Because its been running through my mind all day" and "Excuse me, may I buy you a drink?" It was just too much. Finally--like an overly paparazzied starlet--I grew tired of the attention. So I did what any other objectified, self-destructive four-year-old would do: I shoved gum into my hair. Then I cried and wished I was pretty.

The problem was I'd been conditioned (pun intended) to adults gawking at me, constantly snapping pictures for the family photo album. I had turned into a Britney Spears-type, someone sobbing to be left alone by this cruel, unforgiving world. But I wasn't smacking my gum with Matt Lauer. No, sir. I was using that gum to get to the root of the problem--which was, of course, my gorgeous roots.

Why did being looked at bother me? Little girls are supposed to eat that shit up. They don't normally mash Fruit Stripe into their head. (Although, I must admit there isnt much else Fruit Stripe is good for. That shit sucks.) When someone compliments them, they giggle and curtsy and blow bubbles out of a cute, little plastic yellow blowy thing. Then they giggle again. Then they blow more bubbles out of the thing. But I fucking hated bubbles. And I hated having my picture taken.

But why? 

Could it be that I already, at such a young age, had a rudimentary understanding of objectification, as presented by famous philosopher (and Nazi!) Martin Heidegger?  Was I pulling from his concept of human existence, or Dasein, like the feminists of the '90s? Did I even know what ontology was? Nope. And I still kinda dont (Sorry, Dr. Solomon). But I did know I was tired of being looked at, and I'd had too much sugar. It was only a matter of time before I destroyed myself.

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Down On Bended Knee

Keegan, will you make me the happiest woman in the world and roommate me? Again?

Yes, I know I don't clean--ever. But you do. You clean both the kitchen and the living room, and I don't. And, that's what makes the two of us work so well together. Most roommates make the mistake of splitting the household chores, creating a competitive tension in the air. But in our apartment neither of us will ever think, "Ugh. She doesn't scrub these counters nearly as well as I do," because I never scrub at all. I wouldn't dare to compete with you, Roomie.

Hey, remember that time I told you my milk wasn't expired but it really was and you drank a bunch of it anyway? And then you immediately ran outside and threw up? We've sure had some good times together. Let's not stop the magic now.

What? No, this has nothing to do with the fact that my plans to live with my other friends fell through. C'mon. Don't be that way. You know you're the only one for me. Those other housing plans were just a fluke. You know that. And I know I never say it, but I just want you to know: You're the real deal, girl. Just like our current apartment lease. Its only $354 a month with cable and internet included.

Oh, that's cool. You can think it over while you're vacuuming. Look at all that hair over there! Boy, my cat sure does like to shed.

Am I in your way? No? Good. I'll just crank up the volume on this Simpson's rerun to drown you out. Actually, thats rude. I need to be more considerate. Ill go watch it in your bed instead. You've got the better TV anyway.

11:24 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Lindsay Lohan, You Are Destroying My Life

An Open Letter To Lindsay Lohan:

I am writing this letter because I am extremely concerned--about me. I'm falling apart. Please, get it together Mrs. Lohan. Somehow, I've starting giving a shit about you, and it's making me very, very dumb.

These days, whenever I open a newspaper there's another story about you pissing someone off, making up with aforesaid someone, or pissing off double-aforesaid someone, again. A new celebutante hates and re-hates you every week. And I, of course, read all about it. You couldn't even help yourself from getting thrown out of a VIP Prince concert at P. Diddy's house, could you? C'mon, Lohan! Even I know not to mess with P. Diddy. I don't care how annoying Paris was being. 

I can not and will not allow you to do this to me anymore. Something must be done before PinkIsTheNewBlog becomes my official homepage, or I list Brandon Daviss Firecrotch video as my favorite movie on my MySpace.

I'm not sure if youre aware of this L. Lo, but there is a war going on--a war that I currently could not care less about because of you. International Terrorist Al-Zarqawi Dead? Who cares? Lohan and Hilton Engage In Bitter, All-Night Dance-Off? Tell me more, tell me more/Did she put up a fight? Oh, those summer, celebrity nights! They're much more interesting than some boring old war!!! J/k!

I just used triple exclamation points and the phrase j/k. Look what you've reduced me to.

Lindsay, your reckless, destructive behavior has to stop--for me. My fading intelligence is all I have. We all know you'll never turn out to be okay. But, I might still have a shot. Don't be so selfish. Stop hogging the media and let me read about important things--like celebrity baby names.

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Full-Time Hipster

After months of unemployment, I've decided to get myself a serious, respectable career. When I was a little girl I wanted to be an astronaut. But who respects NASA? There's only one career left for someone with a useless philosophy degree and a post-graduation lack of identity: Full-Time Hipster.

First, I'll need some glasses. Oh, and a new haircut. I'll definitely need one of those.

Now that the hard part's out of the way, it's time to deal with my non-hipster friends, The Non-Androgynies. All relations with The Non-Androgynies must be terminated--as I will be far too busy. I must eat, sleep, and breathe hipster. The daily tasks of my mainstream lifestyle will be replaced with the following: thrift store shopping, updating pictures Ive taken of myself on Myspace, and irony. On the weekends, I must understand that previous friends will attempt to contact the newer, better, more hipster me. Unfortunately, I'll be at my favorite 24-hour diner, waiting to over-pay for terrible service.

And most importantly, I'll become a trust-fund baby. Granted, this is far more difficult to acquire than a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. But the way I see it, I coasted off my parents all through college and I see absolutely no reason to start paying for things now. We all know the old adage: If you give a mouse a college tuition, hes going to ask for a glass of money. A big ol' glass of free money.

Yes, I plan to join (like so many others) the crowd of non-conformists. Now, why would I put so much effort into looking and acting like I don't give a shit? Because I'm not qualified for anything else. But at least I'll love my full-time hipster job--even if I hate myself. 

11:20 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Philosophical W.A.S.P.

Over the summer I wrote this weekly column for The Austin Student called Philosophical W.A.S.P. I pitched it to them as a column about my findings in post-college life, but it pretty much just turned into me farting out 300 words about whatever I felt like 20 minutes before deadline.

The next six or seven or nine posts will be those farts.

11:09 AM - 1 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment