10 Things I hate about U(NC)

Yes, I realize how bad this title sounds. And no, I don't suddenly hate the University of the People. But, like a married couple with a few years under their belt, I think that I can recognize a few traits in my partner that rub me the wrong way without calling off the entire relationship.
Obviously, I love UNC, but in my 4 years here, I have picked up on a few less-than-ideal traits. Here are a few of my best(worst?):

10. "Pepsi for Coke"- When I was a freshman, coke machines flourished in their natural habitat, the basement of dorms. Coca-Cola is still present at all sporting events, and evidently is quite a sponsor of our athletics. But the dorm basements, fountains of lenior, and student union? You stand a better chance of finding a Carolina fan in Cameron Indoor than a Diet coke in a UNC drink machine. Ridiculous.

9. "Campus Mail"- I once recieved a package of cookies for my birthday from my parents. My birthday is Nov. 27th. The package arrived in January. I believe this is reason enough to hate the Campus Mail system.

8. "The PR lot"- Hey guys, instead of building enough parking decks on campus for all the students that want a space, let's just pick a random wooded area, say, 2 miles off campus, and put a big gated parking lot there! We can have this really slow bus (NU) run there on an unpredictable schedule. Maybe we'll even put a security guard in a little booth, to give the apperance of security. Sounds like an awesome plan for Undergrad parking. They have plenty of time, they won't mind wasting 2 hours a day just getting their cars! (see also: lack of parking, #2)

7. "ONYEN password"- ATTENTION UNC STUDENT: Your ONYEN password is set to expire in 7 days. You cannot change your password back to an old password. You Must Use numbers, letters, and a special character. You must change this password every 3 months. And if you should let it expire, well, you better have the time to come have it reset. How do you expect to set your computer to remeber passwords when they change every 3 months? After a never-ending stream of Carolina#1, #1Carolina, Carolina@1, (sorry, none of these are actually my password these days) I long for the days of the 6 character passwords of the simpler days.

Next time, reasons 4 through 6 of my senior-year diatribe.

Bush league

Last week at bub's, after a night of solid drinking and attempting to remeber those Summer of 69 lyrics that I've actually never known, A miracle happened: I recalled how to properly Tie a Necktie. Big Deal? Yes, now I can forge ahead with the plans of being a Lawyer. Thank you, 1980-1989, Bub O'malley's, and Coors Light for making the dream a reality.

Malfuction

When I came to college, I got a cellphone. Everyone has cellphones at college. I had this cellphone, with its crappy-ass ringtone and Green/Black screen, for 3 years. In all this time, the phone pulled some gayass tricks (holding a full charge for 2 hours, forgetting how to vibrate properly, and losing the function of the vital 2 (ABC) key). But never did the little solider fail to operate because of physical trama. Plenty of spills, plenty of blackouts, gallons of jagermester; I was still on the Sprint free and clear plan. Then the new bitch rolls into town, promising a camera, color, and speakerphone. And as soon as the humble narrator gets sufficently wasted, what happens? BAM, right on the sidewalk, out flies the goddamn batterypack/simcard clusterfuck, and Alex Phipps is off the Grid. Now, I realize that yes, this can happen to any phone with the proper combination of physics and inebriation. But TWO times? And both in the highly vital drunk dialing/texting primetime of post 2am barnights? The replacement of the battery pack is not so difficult when sober. There are little graphics illustrating the proper technique with which to replace your battery pack, should you be retard enough to misunderstand the obvious insert-till-click fundamentals. But all understand the lack of coordination that goes along with alcohol consumption. And the loss of reasoning and fine motor skills as well. In the end, when both sides seem to be black, and covered with symbols (chinese writing and a numbered graphic illustrating battery installation seem strikingly similar after 3 LIT's) there exists an infinite number of incorrect combinations. This is frustration on a level never before encountered with cellular devices. There are currently 2 large impact sites on the bottom of the offending device; it seems perhaps the slim, pocket-fitting design is actually aerodynamically designed to direct the phone to impact resulting in maximum confusion and disaster. Fuck you, Motorola. It seems that they have accomplished what thousands of angry girls never could: preventing an Alex Phipps Drunk Dial.

Look Homeward, Angel

It's about damn time someone put a post on here. Yep, valentine's day. How about that? Not that any guy really gives a fuck about valentine's day; all guys give a fuck about is what will happen if they don't give a fuck (or give the well-crafted facade of fuckgiving). I have undertaken the herculean effort of reading the 528 pg. novel of Mr. Thomas Wolfe's fame, in the period of a week. Not a good call on my part, despite the overall quality of the work. Yes, the birthright novel of all Carolina English students (as any teacher will happily remind you) is quite a work to behold; being unacquainted with the work until my final semester, I'm slightly saddened that I never read it before. I'm also slightly saddened that I decided to pick this book to read in a week and give a damn presentation on. For those of you wondering why this stands in the way of a Man with 1 real class (weightlifting is quite a challenge for the senior, but honestly, you don't have to take it home with you), please recall the width and breadth of the events of late. There was the slight matter of the Duke game (god bless the scrub team; what coach puts in his B team and actually closes the gap on Duke??) a bit of heavy drinking to do on thursday and saturday, and a night of fine (free) film viewing in the wonderfully modern student union auditorium (who knew that seats could actually put the cheeks of your ass to sleep? Padded seats! to sleep! both cheeks!). In the end, the culprit behind the complications, as those who follow the trials of Phipps will know: procrastination. Yes, like the mysterious serial killer in CSI, the bastard rears his ugly head; keeping me enprisoned in bed till all hours of the day, up at night drinking red bull and diet coke while I should be slumbering on the rock-ass hard twin bed that Mill Creek delightfully provided for me, and generally preventing the academic and physical excellence that otherwise would be mine. Add in his friend alcohol, and you have a diagnosis: chronic senioritis.