why do people want to do this?

The people in my class are a wreck. JMC 3013 has been not unlike a female dog for aspiring journalists this semester. Little sleep and the constant knowledge that somewhere, somehow there lurks an element of a story unfinished weighs heavily upon the question-laden type-A's.
As I do a quick evaluation, I realize people in this field are probably not happy people. The buzz today in the OU Daily newsroom was this guy refusing an interview with a reporter chick from The Daily. Apparently, she got all perdy'ed up for the interview to talk to this dude to write a story about some carnival that was basically pointless anyway.
The carnival was cancelled and when the reporter chick started asking questions, the guy asked her "what she was doing." She said "I'm a reporter", then the dude freaked out and was a jerk to her until she left. The dude had nothing to say in response to her questions, but he also didn't want to take the "no comment" option.
All in all, it sounds about right for a university employee, but I was mainly impacted by the reporter chick who took the whole thing semi-personally and was ranting around the newsroom for about half-an-hour. Lots of profanity-laced drama.
I find it hard to get that emotionally involved in my writing. Perhaps it's apathy, perhaps it's the fact that I don't see myself being a journalist "when I grow up."
Whispered curses can be heard on the lips of some of my classmates as they toil and type themselves into an early grave. Envision a brunette sitting at a Mac, brow contorted, papers strewn about, muttering sour somethings as the clock on the wall ticks perpetually and three phones ring.
"Oklahoma Daily, how can I help you?"
"Oklahoma Daily, how can I help you?"
"Oklahoma Daily, how can I help you?"

I hit Apple P, sending digital signals to the printer which chugs out in seconds what took hours to forge. I touch the pages. Done? How can this be? I see and hear myself stapling the pages, placing them neatly within the confines of the all-powerful INBOX. G.P.A.'s are made and squandered by this 8 1/2 x 11 metallic monster. Slowly I click the red X several times on my computer, erasing my presence into .doc neverland.
Somehow my bag is zipped and on my back. My feet are moving. I push through the heavy Daily door--only one more. Heart beating, sleep-deprived cells screaming for something new, I push through the second door and suddenly I'm outside.
I look down and feel a strange sensation. The mild radiation on my skin looses my scholastic cacoon. I hear a cracking and feel the cacoon fall away. My wings are flapping and I'm at 10, 25, 50, 1000 feet. Copeland Hall is an afterthought below me--sculpted bricks among some trees.
Joyfully, I look down then grow somber at all it has taken from me. I contort my mouth, drawing on saliva reserves to form the mother of all protest lugies. I inhale deeply for maximum velocity, but just before I release the missile I hear a familiar sound.
The sound intensifies, changing, it becomes distinguishable. A jet engine. I beat my wings to the left, turning myself around to look behind me and barely miss being hit by a winged, cylindrical projectile. Righting myself, I see the projectile going down, down, picking up speed.


Sometime Later


Firefighters put out the last of the flames surrounding the rubble. A charred plaque hanging on a remaining portion of wall reads Copeland Hall. I pivot my head to the right and see two F.B.I. agents carrying off the remains of a Tomahawk Cruise Missile and a smile cracks on my face.
Slowly, I pivot on my heel and take a step but stop as I hear a familiar chink. Out of wonder I look down to my feet and see a smoldering 8 1/2 x 11 metallic object. My smirk returns, breaking into a smile. "This has been a good day."





DISCLAIMER: It is the implicit understanding that no one was hurt in the explosion of Copeland Hall as depicted in this post. The events depicted in this post in no way reflect my desires or wishes. Any further questionable content contained therein can be attributed to a lack of head-on-pillow time.