I find it endlessly interesting how a number of people I know and speak to on a regular basis continue to spell my name "Jenny."

I understand that it is the more common spelling, but for the love of god, almost every single screen or username I have on the interwebs includes my ACTUAL first name, with the spelling I use.

Clearly, a significant number of people I know fail at reading.

Oh my god, I had no idea OKCupid also sends emails to both parties if you rate one another as one star on QuickMatch.

That is HILARIOUS.

Yeah.

So, I've been clicking through this "QuickMatch" nonsense, and I'm noticing something... a truly disturbing number of men feel the need to specify in their profiles that they are nice to women, respect women, see women as people, etc. etc. etc.

Well, let's just give you a fuckin' medal, then! Wow! You're nice to a category of people that includes half the planet! You think of human beings as - GASP! - human beings, even though they were born with vaginas! TRULY, SIR, YOU ARE THE MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. OF TITS.

Here's the thing. If you have to go out of your way to stress that hey, look how respectful/tolerant/nice you are... you aren't. You are, in fact, part of the problem. If every other paragraph in my profile was about how much I like and respect black people, how I think of them as people like everyone else, and how I always treat them nicely, any sane person would probably be, at best, creeped out.

In conclusion: Scattering statements about how nice you are to people possessing girlbits throughout your profile, yammering about it constantly, or otherwise being obnoxious about your alleged respect for women does not earn you a cookie, a blow job, or anything more than an inadvertent twitch of my eyebrow (this happens when I encounter massive stupidity). Treating women like human beings should be a BASIC THING. It should be like BREATHING. The fact that you think it's something remarkable says a lot more about you than anything you could consciously choose to advertise.

Yeah, I spent a good three minutes figuring out how to horribly mangle the word "graduation" while still keeping it somehow readable. I went with one of the safer spellings. One version involved the letter 'k'. I no longer remember how.

But yes. My diploma, let me show you it. OH WAIT, I can't. I don't have it. I am 90% sure that I have graduated, but since nothing St. Thomas has sent me explicitly states that this is the case, I am well aware that I should probably not count on it. For all I know there's some random course not listed on my degree plan or mentioned by my advisor* that is ABSOLUTELY CRUCIAL to my degree. I do hope not, since my mom started telling people I'd graduated before I even finished my last exam. I will never have to call anyone and inform them of my accomplishments, as I am quite certain my mother will do it for me at least a week in advance.

Suspicion that I have in fact graduated is increased by the fact that St. Thomas accepted me into their MBA program. I am pretty sure graduation was a requirement for that. So here's hoping.

I may be moving out with my brother and his friend. That is currently iffy, because my brother does not live in this reality and thus I am not so sure I trust him to be able to pay rent. I will most likely be obtaining some sort of employment in the near future, due to my schedule of all-evening classes. I suppose this means I will have to purchase clothes that could not double as pajamas. Maybe something that shows cleavage. It'd be so very nice not to be called 'sir' at least once a week.

*As an aside, I was shocked to discover via a conversation with a friend that some academic advisors actually... advise people. Mine tossed a list of courses at me, signed things when I brought them to his office, and that was it. This was also the case at UTSA, so I just assumed that was how the whole process worked. This irks me somewhat, though I have no idea what difference actual advising could possibly have made.

I has raspberry sorbet. Life is good.
For some reason I've recently grown to love raspberry things. I'm not sure why... Like strawberries, though, the seeds drive me crazy. So I wind up liking raspberry and strawberry flavored things, but not so much the fruits themselves. Woe is my diet.
Half a pint of rasbperry sorbet for dinner. Actually, now that I think on it, that's pretty much all I've eaten today. I WIN AT NUTRITION!

Discussing reality shows with two classmates after Poetry on Tuesday, I mentioned that were I the 'prize' in such a show, the contestants would be falling over themselves to be voted off.
Which gave me an idea.
We've got all these shows where people don't want to get voted off and whatnot... but what if there was one where they desperately wanted out, but due to their contracts, couldn't just up and go? There could be an interesting story there. Or at least a gag-a-day strip goldmine. I'm thinking, these guys (and one girl, who was sent to the wrong reality show casting call by mistake) were lured onto the show, signed their souls away (maybe literally, who knows -- it is a comic) for fame, possible fortune, and the ability to win the hand of a beautiful woman!
... It's just that no one mentioned that the photo of said women shown to them is easily five to ten years old, and the woman in question has... changed.
I'm thinking took out the implants, gained weight, maybe started drinking as her primary activity. She is probably bitter and hates everyone, only having signed on to the show because she was drunk and her agent is evil.
I haven't thought about making a gag-a-day strip in ages. But this looks like fun. Who knows?

[EDIT]
Her name is Samantha.