Many of us who find it hard to spare one moment to even breathe are often displeased to hear the ever-familiar sound of the weathered Salvation Army bell. The week before Thanksgiving we see a stranger adorned with a thick parka and gloves piously waiting for a handful of coins and a gesture of goodwill. Someone working with the spirit of the holiday season is deemed as an annoyance, as most off-the-cuff comments will tell you. In the hustle of the everyday real world, it is easy to reserve just one part of the year for generosity toward others, both known and unknown.

As I see it, the bell ringers are one of the most joyous signs of this jubilant season, in which we sense a shift in the balance of our character. As the season begins to change and our eyes notice the newly stubbled fields of snow, we too, change. Our friends change. Our priorities change. Our lives change.

Change, though dubious in results, during the holiday season brings my mind to my family. This Christmas is my first without any grandparents, as my grandfather passed away over the summer. This Christmas is my first as an uncle to my nephew Henry, who was born last winter. Perhaps this season of good tidings may remind us, as it always does to me, that we have limitless soul mates in the people who cross our paths. People leave us, and people are given to us, all in the grand scheme of making us the people we are destined to be. A part of life closes, preparing us for whatever is next.

As I have learned in the duration of my four-and-a-half years at SDSU, a sense of family transcends blood lineage. Family are the people we surround ourselves with during the light and during the dark. This family might resemble a girl in your Math 021 class who later goes to Reba McEntire concerts with you. Perhaps it is a student organization adviser, who over the years becomes more than a workplace superior and turns into a dear friend. Lastly, family can take the shape of a roommate whom you think of as a brother rather than the guy across the hall. All of these people whom I did not know came into fruition because my life changed.

A very wise woman in my life, Reverend Shari Mason, led me to look at the Christmas season, and perhaps life in general, very differently. At age 22, I do not associate Christmas with the celebrated virgin birth. I have an image in my head of an adult Jesus wandering through a wilderness; an analogy of uncertainty, darkness and change.

We will never be the same people we were four years ago, because whether good, bad or indifferent, our views toward life and ourselves do not remain constant. Hopefully, we can find an inner strength to be open enough to receive whatever change is presented to us and ponder what providential meaning we must derive from it.

When the season comes to pass, and the cacophony of the Salvation Army bell ceases, we can hopefully keep whatever change we have noticed in ourselves rather than putting it in storage with the rest of the holiday decorations.

May every age, creed, gender, tax bracket, political affiliation, race, sexual orientation and child feel a sense of oneness again. Perhaps we can stop searching, and embrace God, Buddha, Allah or something within ourselves we did not know we had. This holiday season, and for every day of the year, may you find the people and whatever else makes you feel peace throughout every change that awaits you.

Visit Brady’s blog at bradylately.blogspot.com.

If I were concerned about how people perceived me, I am sure I would participate in strenuous workouts, wear meticulous ensembles of name-brand-only clothing and strategically place blond highlights in my David Beckham-ish haircut. All of those things, which I do, are not for purposes of attracting anyone else. I do all of these things for myself, or at least that is what I tell bystanders to avoid the disapproving looks. I live a single life that I like living, and I cannot seem to find anyone worth answering to. Until I commit a crime, I refuse to be on lockdown under the instruction of a thick-calved prison warden.

I recently saw yet another movie that paints a rather faulty and romanticized picture of life post-singledom. At the behest of two female friends, Brittany and Scary Spice, I went to a film called Ghosts of Girlfriends Past. I can liken it to watching the awkward girl from high school getting nominated for homecoming queen. In the beginning I was rooting for the movie, but by the middle it was clear this train wreck was headed for disaster.

The movie draws heavily from Dickens’, “A Christmas Carol.” Matthew McConaughey is the 2009 version of Ebenezer Scrooge, the cold-hearted banker who receives three visits from three ghosts who warn him to change his life. McConaughey plays a successful photographer who is wealthy, established and shows a superb innovation concerning portraiture. He is also promiscuous, womanizing and unwilling to show remorse for living a life that is self-centric. Naturally, his character is equated to all of the characteristics of the bastardized Scrooge.

In the end McConaughey, despite all of his successes, realizes he cannot be happy without the love of his life. This movie, though giving me an excuse to have a snare drum of Coke, was not worth my $7 on cheap movie night. Why does a single life take a backseat to the life of domestication? Furthermore, why does Jennifer Garner’s face always look like that?

We live in a world that feels sorry for single people. I cannot begin to count the looks of sympathy I get when I mention that I am not in a relationship. Before things get too uncomfortable, like when two customers eye the only remaining denim jumper with embroidered cats at Christopher & Banks, I make up a soothing lie.

“Brady, do you have a girlfriend?” my mom’s cousin Judy asked.

“No. I did, but she was indicted for soliciting to a high political official. Coupled with her charges for human trafficking, not to mention using her privates to conceal cocaine, she will not be out for a very long time … didn’t Mom tell you in her Christmas card?”

As Judy walked away, I was relieved to know that she was comforted in the fact that I had a prostitute, drug-addicted girlfriend, rather than having her think I wallowed in a perilous life of loneliness. This was all BEFORE our church service started, mind you.

I wonder if anyone will make a movie about a single person who makes the right life choices and finds happiness through some type of fulfillment that is not dating. Where is the children’s book about the middle-aged woman who gets that secretarial job promotion she has been wanting? Granted, she probably collects paperclips and cries every night, but at least our little girls would know that they are never too old for a hobby.

I always wonder what happens six months after these love stories. I know I get bored with my own family after six hours, so six months with a stranger sounds excruciating. I would like to think that Cinderella would have relapsed back into alcoholism, thus losing the castle to loan sharks, all while Prince Charming has a lusty same-sex affair with a stable boy.

In this world, life does not seem to measure up without a mate to share something with. My great-aunt Delores lives in a $1 million house in Hermosa Beach, walks to the pier every day and attends parties with wealthy friends. She is single and has a very nice life. This sounds like a fantastic life to me. Then again, with my barely minimum wage job, doing PR for Dick Cheney sounds enticing. My point is, there is nothing wrong with devoting your life to things that do not involve being in a relationship. At the very least, if you are in a relationship, at least have the foresight to date someone with a lot of money and very low self-esteem.

Visit Brady’s blog at bradylately.blogspot.com.

The thing I miss most about Canada is the option to purchase wine in a pop can. One might easily mistake me for a native of our northern neighbor, but I simply acknowledge the technological beauty of an adult libation in a portable, easy-to-hide cylinder of aluminum. Such a device would have proven useful during a recent mess of a situation I incurred whilst visiting my humble homestead.

My siblings and I deemed it necessary to hold a party to celebrate my parent’s 40 years of indentured servitude, otherwise known in America as marriage. Somewhere between the Jello salad and the cacophony of questions concerning my post-graduation future from my parents’ friends, I found a meaningless errand to serve as my escape from my Saturday night imprisonment.

As I entered the grocery store, I was startled by a man who was as irate as he was portly. Curious, I peered out from behind the bread aisle to find him screaming at an African woman who was undoubtedly searching her purse for mace or a cookie to distract Sir Tons-of-Fun. Sadly, this man took it upon himself to reflect poorly not only upon himself, but also my hometown.

“WHEN YOU COME TO THIS COUNTRY YOU PARK THE RIGHT WAY IN OUR PARKING LOTS,” he shouted, followed by an unintelligible jumble of, “THIS IS AMER’CUH!” While I find yelling at children to be perfectly acceptable at any occasion, especially on their birthdays, I do not condone hillbilly bravado. With the exception of a Kenny Rogers Christmas special, of course.

After I got over the initial shock of this offensive exchange, I quickly realized purchasing generic hamburger buns for our guests was not the divine reason I was sent on this task. I quickly got on my knees in aisle four to give thanks for this great gift in addition to the two-for-one sale.

Ten minutes later, I was in the checkout lane right behind the carnival barker. His vast spread of Little Debbies and Doritos made me wonder if he was hypoglycemic or if he made it a mission to test the endurance of the elastic waistband adorning his green sweatpants. By the look of him, it was clear the elastic waistband was losing. He engaged the elderly checkout lady with his previous actions, painting his prejudiced rant as heroic.

After he left, the checkout lady decided to re-tell me the story, whilst imposing her thoughts on immigration. To sum up the five minutes of my life she took from me, she feels foreigners are just super if they are seen and not heard. I had to wonder what the Hispanic lady with child thought of the woman who would ring up her groceries.

Looking back on it, I wish I would have said something to the man in front of me. However, with my diploma a mere month away, I had no desire to be beaten up by a man in a Kid Rock T-shirt.

I am perplexed to think a country so advanced with the luxuries and freedoms provided by many great people in our armed forces is still evaded by the race issue. My only comfort is seeing that man waddle around the parking lot whilst, in his mind, looking for terrorists. Perhaps such strenuous activity, coupled with his dinner of trans fats, made him far too sleepy to beat his wife that night.

Visit Brady’s blog at bradylately.blogspot.com.

After years and years of proverbially whoring myself out in the customer service world to support myself throughout high school and college, I have come to the conclusion that many of the elderly are full of s***.

My brash notion is not necessarily a blanket statement; for geriatrics, like dog breeds, are each special in their own way. While some are gentle and will do tricks for cubes of cheese, I have found a large quantity of elderly people will tear your face off if you make eye contact.

My endeavors in pretending to be interested in helping others have made me think critically about the hardships many old people claim to have seen. Before you judge, I ask you this: if the Depression, World War II, the Reagan presidency and other travesties really happened, why do those with grey hair get so riled up about miniscule daily occurrences?

I am not without reason and I completely understand the validity in yelling at a college student when the establishment he works for is out of tartar sauce. Conversely, if you survived the Holocaust you should probably be able to put things into perspective and not let the lack of a mayonnaise product ruin your evening. In addition to that, maybe you would not have the need to purchase pants with elastic waistbands if you skipped the condiments once in a while.

I like to think I am an equal opportunist and my annoyance with rude elderly people is not an isolated prejudice, for I tend to have a disdain for everyone who is not me. Listening to my peers who are in their twenties lament about not having a significant other, thus branding their lives intolerable, makes me jealous of Helen Keller, who never had to listen to such meaningless rambling, or anything for that matter.

In truth, I decided years ago to make sure my career postgraduation is one that does not involve caring about other people, such as politics.

When I was in high school and working at a little place I like to call K-Mart, I was accosted by a lady with a penchant for crushing my spirit as well as five-dollar hair dye.

As the night was drawing to a close, I found myself rearranging items in the health and beauty section, making sure to take my time in order to have to do as little as possible. Apparently the elderly woman could not find the specific blonde she wanted and decided to take out her aggressions on me since I am clearly the CEO of L’Oreal. Being the always-seasoned professional, I calmly, but firmly told her she was an imbecilic moron who was not only wasting my time, but was a drain on society. I was not worried about getting fired because, frankly, I was the only one employed who was not on drugs or stealing. I am certain I could have burned the whole store down without ruining my chances for employee of the month.

I stand by my actions for I do not believe in coddling people when they are being ridiculous. I was lucky enough to have four very wonderful, amazing and kind individuals for grandparents. I simply cannot imagine any of them behaving the way this lady did. I would not put it past my Grandma Mallory to have put out her Marlboro on someone’s arm, but throwing a rude temper tantrum was simply not in her pedigree. Perhaps I was harsh and maybe I should have felt some semblance of remorse when she started to fake cry and tell me the aforementioned exchange was the worst thing that had happened to her. Something about the motorized scooter she was using coupled with her neck-brace told me she was being a tad over-dramatic.

<1>Visit Brady’s blog at bradylately.blogspot.com.

Growing up, I never admired the same figures other little boys declared as their heroes. Baseball players, football stars and Superman did not impress me as much as the one who embodied what I thought of as heroism. As a 22-year-old man, my hero is still very much my mother. This summer, I met a stranger who reaffirmed why I hold this to be true.

The second day of my internship led me to the glass-paned oak door of a woman in her mid-thirties. She was warm, inviting, beautiful and had a light about her not many are able to boast about. Watching this spry, cheerful woman who was dressed in a bright blue blouse, black capris and high heels, it was easy to forget she had just been diagnosed with stage four breast cancer for the second time. Surrounded by rows and rows of photographs that captured family events of yesterday, picture days for her two young daughters or warm embraces from dear friends, this woman told me and a news camera her story. Her story was my story.

She had just had chemotherapy the day before and had mentioned she woke up and noticed her raven-black hair had already begun collecting on her pillow. She showed us her scrapbooking room, her husband’s “man cave” and various school projects from her daughters. Not once did she say her condition was an injustice. Instead, and gracefully so, she said, “You can choose to stay in bed every day, or you can choose to get out of bed and fight. I choose to fight.”

In October, Breast Cancer Awareness Month, we remember women like Becky because she is a cancer patient. To her children, she is Mom. Gloria Mallory was a cancer patient who survived breast cancer nine years ago. She is my mom. Becky was 30 when she was first diagnosed. My mom was 54. Becky has short black hair. My mom has long blonde hair. The point is: cancer knows no age, no height, no weight, no hair color, no race, no economic status. I never thought my mom would have breast cancer, and now, nine years later, I wake up every morning with the fear it could come back.

Breast cancer starts in the cells of the breast in women and men. Worldwide, breast cancer is the second most common type of cancer after lung cancer (10.4% of all cancer incidents, both sexes counted) and the fifth most common cause of cancer death. In 2009, approximately 40,170 women are expected to die of breast cancer in the United States, according to http://ww5.komen.org/. Today, this could just be a number. Tomorrow it could be your mother.

Celebrate October by scheduling a mammogram at the local hospital, because early detection is the best way to stop breast cancer while it is still in the early stages. Mammograms are quick, relatively low in cost, and though they may be slightly uncomfortable, they can find cancer that is the size of a small bead. Stage is the most important, as it takes into consideration size, local involvement, lymph node status and whether metastatic disease is present. The higher the stage at diagnosis, the worse the prognosis. Younger women tend to have a poorer prognosis than post-menopausal women due to several factors. Their breasts are active with their cycles, they may be nursing infants and they may be unaware of changes in their breasts. Therefore, younger women are usually at a more advanced stage when diagnosed.

Early detection is what saved my mother, who had stage-two breast cancer. She had a lumpectomy, five rounds of chemotherapy and radiation five days a week for about five months. I was able to go with her to nearly all of her radiation treatments. Had she not found the lump during a self-examination, which led to a mammogram, my story could have ended much differently. I still thank God daily for my mother’s health and how her disease was an awakening. Becky’s journey, my mom’s journey and every other journey in between are not lessons in death but are lessons in life. Author Rob Bell makes an astute observation when he says, “It is as if the smallest amount of light is infinitely more powerful than massive amounts of dark.”

If we can remember to schedule regular mammograms, encourage self-exams and spread awareness, not just in October, but every month, perhaps we can raise a generation who will never have to know what cancer is.

Visit http://ww5.komen.org/ for more info or schedule your mammogram by calling Brookings Avera Medical Clinic at 697-9500. To my mother and yours; to your daughter, sister, wife, girlfriend, grandmother, aunt, cousin, friend and neighbor, Happy Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Visit Brady’s blog at bradylately.blogspot.com.

It is hard to go anywhere or see anything that does not hold a reflection of the implications of social media. Once upon a time, we remembered the birthdays of our five closest friends. Now, Facebook reminds us about the birthdays of our 2,000 closest strangers. We’ve blogged, MySpaced and iChatted and now I feel that it is my duty, my fate, if you will, to ask the question nobody is asking: What if Jesus had Twitter?

As we enter yet another decade, we carry with us another “it” idea. Reinvention is so in right now, why wouldn’t Jesus want to be a presence on the Web? Think about it. How many people belonging to this generation, which I believe is Generation Y, though that may have been a one-hit wonder boy band in the late 90s … I think I am losing my train of thought. Okay, where was I? Currently, my generation and those below me are divorcing themselves from books in order to begin a torrid love-affair with anything defined as interactive media.

Before you dismiss my quandary as sacrilegious, allow me to bestow upon you, my new blog family, why this is not so outrageous. Hillary Clinton once told me, not me personally, but the audience at her rally, that each newborn baby in the U.S. already has $30,000 of debt on his head. For me, it means that I had to charge a $4.12 coffee from Starbucks. For advertising companies, it means spending capital on outdoor displays and print media has lost its appeal. This is traced back to my first thought about the 25-and- under crowd losing its luster towards books and newspapers. We find ourselves in a time when the fodder in print cannot boast the traffic online entities receive. Instead, these companies are using Twitter to maintain their marketability.

I will venture a bold guess that Jesus is a thrifty man and can appreciate a good deal. I would also assume that He would rather donate His money to philanthropic charges than spend it on 30-sheet displays, or spectaculars in Times Square. Ipso facto, Jesus would want to use Twitter and tweet about…Jesusy things. Plus, Jesus could use His cellphone, either a Blackberry Pearl or an iPhone, to update his Tweets. Here are some of the Tweets I envision:

“JC03: is volunteering at a soup kitchen, and you should too!”

“JC03: is perplexed by how well the Mr. Clean Magic Erasers work. Now those can perform some miracles!”

“JC03: doesn’t think President Obama is Hitler. Do unto others!”

“JC03: thinks Kanye West is a tool! Hearts Taylor Swift!”

I personally think it would be cool if Jesus had Twitter so I could know what His thoughts were regarding art, entertainment, religion, food, literature, Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag and just life in general. Not to be litigious, but while the Bible gives insight into the Christian ideology, it was not written by Jesus. If Jesus had written the Bible, He certainly would have done a book tour, as well as done the voice work for the audio version. With all proceeds donated to His favorite charity, of course.

What if Jesus had Twitter? What if we could just read His thoughts, rather than interpret what a doctrine, fueled by political agenda, has told us? What if Jesus could tell us of the path to true elysium, or at the very least, his American Idol predictions all in a precise 140 characters? How would we live and treat others if the guesswork was taken out of Christianity and we could read Jesus in first person? Perhaps that sentiment can be this millennium’s answer to the song, “What if God Was One of Us?”. I would have made this into a song, but I cannot think of enough words that rhyme with Twitter to necessitate an entire song, let alone one that would be a radio hit by Billboard Magazine’s standards.

Visit Brady’s blog at bradylately.blogspot.com.

As I waved goodbye to the news station where I spent a summer of indentured servitude, also known as an internship, a foreshadowing sentence loudly reverberated inside my head: “Ever since this job has pretty much sucked my soul out of my v*****, I just don’t care anymore.” In retrospect, that piece of guidance is one of two fond memories I have of the station’s anchor, Diane.

The other being the magical time she yelled at me for filling her FIJI bottle with water from the tap. The worst part was, she only referred to me as Intern Two because my name was of no importance to her. Obscurity is a cold and unforgiving seductress with man-hands. It was the first time I cried in five years; silently of course.

With summer slowly fading away from the midnight air, I now find myself lying awake, wondering what I should do with my career in order to escape the same fate as Diane: being a premature burnout, though not necessarily entailing abstaining from crushing the dreams of my underlings.

While I have an affinity for TV news, I also have an affinity for being able to feed myself without pulling a Heidi Fleiss. With the pressure of finding gainful employment, I decided one day, at 1 p.m., to sit down and take as long as I needed to list my talents. At 1:05 p.m., I stared down at my blank sheet of paper and realized how very screwed I was.

I felt impotent and out of control and could not believe that I have made it through 22 years without any sustainable talent. In order to avoid financial ruin, coupled with not wanting to work hard for something I really want, I decided my next step should be to get myself on a reality show.

I decided to immediately eliminate the reality shows that I was incompatible for, thus making an attainable list to come to fruition. My lack of addictions, bulimia and inability to cry in frenzied rants of hysteria put me out of the race for “The Real World”. For a moment NYC Prep entered my naive list of options, until I remembered my Norwegian tree-trunk thighs can barely fit into a Hefty garbage bag, let alone aqua Diesel skinny jeans.

For a split second, I saw a light at the end of the tunnel. I had a brilliant plan that would segue into a life of parties, grandeur and repeated trips to the Betty Ford Clinic. I could get a reality show based on being a shallow, talentless hack with a distaste for everyone that is not myself. Unfortunately my dream was dead with five little words: “Keeping Up With the Kardashians.”

WWKGD, What Would Kate Gosselin Do? In this situation, she would calmly put on her teeth-whitening strips and take the half hour to stare at herself in the mirror while the peroxide destroys her imperfect enamel and find someone else to blame.

Channeling my own self-loathing, I decided to fault my parents for encouraging me to make my own decisions in life. Had they forced me into the dark perils of the childhood celebrity scene, I probably could have had my own book deal by now, not to mention an “E! True Hollywood Story.” This should detail the further proof that a loving family with parents who act age-appropriate does not pay the bills.

Falling victim to yet another disappointing climax to a half-baked way to avoid middle-class society, I decided to pick up Heidi Fleiss’s biography and a pair of tight leather pants.

Visit Brady’s blog at bradylately.blogspot.com.

If you think college life is a taste of the real world, you are mistaken. I have seen the real world in the form of a homeless man in a wheelchair with a single cigarette tied to his right leg asking passersby for another cigarette. You cannot get any more real than that. College is the fun part, and I am so grateful that this university was momentous in my journey from boy to man. Still, dear freshmen, if you are under the impression it is acceptable to wear your letterman’s jacket, I implore you to take a good, hard look at yourself in the mirror.

I wrote a column last year for The Collegian, though I am not an advice columnist per se. My satirical essays may have been funny and sometimes thought-provoking; they managed to get me banned from an entire town. If you are looking for enlightenment or a spiritual nirvana, you’d best keep your sights set on God, Allah, Buddha or Oprah. Still, one piece of advice I recommend heeding is to take every opportunity this campus offers for enrichment.

When I was a boy, I remember spending time with my Grandma Mallory. One day while she was enjoying a long, slow Marlboro and a generous Bourbon Manhattan, or as she called it, “a hearty breakfast,” she said something that I swore I would never forget. Despite the fact I cannot remember what unintelligible, booze-soaked knowledge she bestowed upon me, I do not doubt the paramount of her wisdom for she had more money than God, and that is all that truly matters.

The aforementioned vignette reminds me that coherence is secondary to affluence and status. Four years are ahead of you, and you have a clean slate to be whoever you want to be. Keep in mind the economic crisis is stripping your finances with the intensity of a televangelist, which means you must choose wisely what wishes you want to come to fruition. This campus gave me the best friends I have ever had; however, I was able to meet people based on similar interests and goals because I started college when Bush had only destroyed half our economy. Make friends with med students, pharmacy students and those who will one day be able to buy you nice things your journalism degree could never afford you. Or if you are comfortable with your future four-year-old doing ugly, desperate things for money, such as working for a sweatshop or the TLC series Toddlers & Tiaras, then by all means make friends based on inner beauty.

Reinvention is inevitable in college, but it does not mean you have to be passive in the process. In high school, I was very shy and nice to everyone, which readily marked me as a pushover. If you want to try this method with your new roommate, who is undoubtedly crazy and rifling through your unmentionables whilst you are away, so be it. Or you can put this vagrant in his/her place, thus rendering him/her unable to make eye contact without bursting into tears. Now is the time to claim your turf and let the weakest of the pair know who is the Kate and who is the Jon. Eat or be eaten. Make no mistake; I do not endorse physical violence at all. What I do recommend is make every effort to destroy your roommate emotionally, as you dig your sharp claws of hostile control into their spirit and leave them barely human. Which reminds me, I need to give my father a call.

Visit Brady’s blog at bradylately.blogspot.com.

As a writer, I try to think of a beginning, develop a story and find an organic ending. I have been thinking about a way to end this sometimes controversial column that has been an intricate part of my senior year at SDSU. Lately, my mind has been wandering back to my days in high school when my life was homecoming games, cruising the one-ways, trips to Perkins after choir concerts, running the school newspaper and eating with friends at Steve’s Pizza. The panic of leaving it all still seems very tangible. I remember thinking that nobody would know me the way my high school friends would, and that this precipice known as change would end life as I knew it.

Life went on, and four years later, here I am. I recall wise author Thomas Wolfe saying, “You can’t go home again.” Thomas is very succinct in this assertion. My hometown seems a little bit more unfamiliar to me with each return. I am finding that I have a hard time connecting with the people I knew in high school because we are fundamental strangers. Four years have passed, and we have changed. We have gone in different directions.

Truthfully, I never wanted to spend my college years at SDSU. Only at the behest of my father did I succumb to the yellow and blue environment that would eventually become my alma mater. I have spent much of my life disagreeing with him, but this time he was right. SDSU was the exact place for me, and I feel that developmentally, I would be five years behind without the accomplishments I have made here.

I recall the book of Mark’s Jesus. Jesus goes into the wilderness, which is full of hunger, thirst and testing: the unknown. It is also a place of transformation, a time to receive change. In some cases, the change we do not want is the change we need to set us free. A half becomes a whole.

More important than a location, relationship or career advancement is the change we notice in ourselves. When we are not looking, when we stop to breathe, when we ask our reflection, “Who am I today?” we begin to see the person we were always meant to be. Any life is full of happiness, sadness, discovery, shame and redemption. A destination is merely a place where you are going, but is it worth the trip if you do not pay attention to the journey? My mom, my hero, says life is all about the journey.

For freshmen, sophomores, juniors, seniors and beyond, I recommend embracing every facet of life that presents itself to you. On the last day of high school, a mentor, Shirley Morgan, said, “This life is dead.” I get what Shirley means: it is time to move on and move forward.

My life for the past four years has been an awakening to a strength of which I was blissfully unaware. It is incredibly painful leaving behind the University Program Council after three years, as is saying goodbye to a handful of faces that have shaped my college experience. This summer, KEYC in Mankato, Minn., is my new life – a life that I am both excited and nervous for. It is a change that is bashert, – Hebrew for the etymology of destiny, or fate.

Thank you Collegian staff for your hard work and dedication to a successful newspaper. I am pleased that I was a part of such a fantastic publication. Thank you to everyone who has read this all year, and I always appreciated the nice things you would say to me if you saw me somewhere. If you want to follow my adventures, check out my blog at http://mcom225-bmallory.blogspot.com. Finally, to those whom I have offended to the point of hate mail – you know who you are – I leave you with this heartfelt departing thought: Get over it. I was hilarious and you are crazy.

My right hand firmly grasped a medium-sized coke cup filled to the top with a condiment that played, to my surprise, an intricate part of an otherwise mundane Thursday night. However, before you guess why this cup was in my hand and why my eyes were aglow with white-hot hatred, I have to start at the beginning.

When they walked in, I could tell something was not quite right about this couple. Other than the fact they looked like the epitome of favorable Jerry Springer guests, I got a whiff of something very special about these two; what the French call a certain je ne sais quoi. It turns out that smell was actually cheap vodka, quite possibly Burnetts, which told me they were drunk. Despite that voice of reason, the one that sounds like Bea Arthur, telling me otherwise, I let them into my place of employment.

Minutes later, a co-worker interrupted me from my very important managerial duties, which at that point consisted of me tracing my hand. I hate to spoil the surprise, but my deductive reasoning tells me that I intended on turning it into a turkey. Before my pen could make the strokes that would be the beak, my co-worker said she got yelled at because we did not have any tarter sauce.

Thinking she was exaggerating, I walked over and politely asked the couple if I could help them with anything. No sooner had I asked, a stream of profanities came out at me and gave me a proverbial slap in the face. Using what my mother taught me, I was very accommodating, respectful and sincerely kind. I offered everything from a free dessert to picking up some tarter sauce from down the street. As soon as I was told that I was full of ? something, I felt something snap inside. The gentle ethereal spirit inside me was gone. A new spirit of rage had risen from the depths of my soul. This person that I have turned into from time-to-time has the power to tear a person apart and reduce them to tears. I have a name for this guy, the one who yells and asks questions later. I like to call him Bob Mallory, which is not-so-ironically the name of my father.

There are many differences between dad and I, coupled with similarities. While I do not have a mustache, nor a troupe of yellow labs that I am obsessed with, I do occasionally have his hostile temper that is usually reserved for telemarketers and our cell phone company. I pivoted and walked away from the table, gritting my teeth. I opened the door to my place of employment and felt a cool rush of air as I stomped down the street. I went into the neighboring business and requested a beverage cup full of this condiment responsible for my damnation. Yes, my mom and many others have battled cancer, many friends of mine have lost parents and my best friend from high school was paralyzed from the neck down. Somehow, the world kept turning for the aforementioned people, but this moron clearly would not live without this container of cholesterol.

I made it back to my place of employment. My co-workers were in front of me and in my peripheral. They saw the crazed-anger burning in pupils, a look of malevolence only likened to Courtney Love or Sean Penn on a binge. They dropped their jaws, and with quick yelps of injured animals, jumped out of my way. I made it to the table and slammed the cup in front of my persecutor causing the pickle-saturated mayonnaise to fly up and splatter everywhere. With a huge fake smile plastered on my face, I calmly, but firmly said, “There is your tarter sauce. Is there anything else I can get for you?”