You should not go out and get drunk with your already drunk roommate, end your alcohol consumption with tequila, then push your beds together so you can have a “sleepover party,” which inevitably results in hysterical laughter, on a Tuesday night when you both have to wake up way too early in the morning and work all day.

That is just random advice having to do with an entirely hypothetical situation.

I’m not sitting at my little intern hovel in the corner of the producers’ lounge convincing my fingers to move across the keyboard and form words that compose somewhat intelligible sentences while simultaneously forcing my eyes to stay open or figuratively bashing my head into the wall in hopes of freeing something to write, anything at all, from the nook it is lodged in.

Though, knowing exactly why I must abandon it, I am desperately clinging to the elaborate column that I started writing Sunday, which is full of language that displays little more than how much I allow myself to indulge in it as a writer. And I am feeling sorry for my boss, who is currently schmoozing the suits who annually donate more money than I’ve ever had at one time, to the station.

Within these suits are shiny people who find the duct taped modem, “which is the heart and soul” of NPR, adorable. They refrain from being condescending because they think it is a bad habit, and most importantly, they allow us poor folk to continue enjoying independent radio that doesn’t segregate itself according to genre. For that last part I am truly grateful.

On another matter altogether, I just hope that the look on my face doesn’t reflect the lethargy accumulating within me as a perfectly pleasant volunteer sticking stamps on stacks of envelopes at the table beside my hovel engages me in conversation while I’m trying to type this.

In conclusion and in no way in context to the rest of this monstrosity of a column, I think I’ll leave you with a thought that stuck out to me yesterday after wandering into a park containing bronze sculptures of animals and a plaque detailing “a myth of discovery.”

The narrator of this myth told the protagonist – a young Native American boy – about various animals’ strengths and weaknesses. The griffin, a winged creature with the head of an eagle and the body of a lion, which has two wings and four feet, is “afraid to be wrong.”

Most people would say that it is a good idea to have the backup plan of four feet incase your wings fail you. This is perfectly accurate logic. The problem is, these people will most likely lead incredibly boring lives.

I say trust yourself blindly and allow life to happen to you. That’s all I have, so I’m going to end here and spend the next six hours trying not to pass out.

Nicole Hennessy is a senior magazine journalism major and columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected].