Big Ol' Update

So, it's almost Thanksgiving (a week and two days, but who's keeping track?). That means I'm almost done with skewl. That means whoopee.
On the job front, my current news is bitter-sweet. I got an internship at the Salt Lake Magazine! I get to do what I went to college for (podcasting, videos, blogging, Web stuff). The really hilarious part is that I get to do it for free for a while. Ha ha.
Nels is doing well in school. He's also doing well with his computer repair business. I'm just so proud.
So that's it, except this entry I am including a excerpt from my journal today, just because I update that thing (my journal) more than this thing (my blog). So here goes:

My book report was due today. Do you want to know what book it was on? Of course, you do. The book was "Jack the Ripper: Media, History, and Culture". Yes indeed. I now officially have an uncanny knowledge of the murders/rapes/disembowelments of 1888. Or so my audience — my Communications Media and Religion class — now supposes. Because, really, I didn't read the book all the way.
Yet I conducted a 10 minute speech on the text without pausing for breath. I even made people laugh quite raucously. I count that as a success because I often make people laugh, or try to. I think people find me ironic. Because people look at me and think I'm so darn sweet. I'm also quiet, so then they think I'm so darn sweet again. Then they hear me talk on a given topic, then they think I am smart or so darn sweet again. So when I actually am free to express my ideas in my delicate way of saying things, they can't help but think I'm hilarious ... and so darn sweet. This is a tested and tried theory, by the way. I have actually conversed with people who said, "I used to think you were so sweet." I'm not really sure what to get from that.
Anyway, irony is America's form of humor. It is THE humor. Every funny thing is based on something that does happen in contrast what you'd expect to happen. Oh my, just look at my bad, philosophical self!
But really, I still do have an uncanny knowledge of Jack the Ripper. I should dye my hair black and wear a dog collar. In other words, I should become all dark and morbid, because now I know something sick and twisted, thus it has become a part of my identity. So there.
The editor of the book is a funny lady it turns out. She is a study-er of morbid Victorian things. She doesn't look weird, but hey, one doesn't have to look weird to study weird things, though you'd definitely expect it. It's like those crazy kids in high school that write their own elvish languages. You just gotta look at them and think: Why did you spend all your time doing that? Really, I want to know. Are you a psycho or something?
Actually, I don' t think the editor lady would be a psycho. The more likely of the two would be the high school student. I tried to enlist one such person to write a language just for me and call it the Robin language. I guess he didn't really see the point because I wasn't hot enough (key word, "wasn't"). I considered dating him just so he would write a language for me because once he got to know me really well, he'd see that my personality was ample reason to spend time doing that. It's odd to find out what really makes you compromise your morals. That was an especially rude awakening for me.