“Ja-kee! Vhere do you teenk you are go-eeng? Not before you ke-leen your room!” What? I can’t what? Who is this strange Iranian woman and why is she yelling at me? Oh, wait … that’s my mother. I’m home now… I live at home. At my parents’ house. They have rules. If not p, then not q. If my room is not “ke-leen,” then I may not go out. If there is no car, then I will not escape. And if there is no razor blade, then I can not end this torment.

Fine, I’ll stay in, watch some daytime TV. Television for depressed housewives and those suckling at the teat of the ass-end of their severance packages. What’s on? Judge Judy: The “guess-what-I’m-a-crusty-old-hag” Installment, The People’s Court: “My pride and dignity cost less than the $12 you owe me” Episode, and Jerry Springer: The “Pregnant Trannies and the Midgets Who Love Them” Special. Infomercial, infomercial, reruns of MTV’s Duel with that cute guy from Cornell who got his ass whopped by CT, Days of Our Lives, soap, soap, telenovela — OOOOOHHH! America’s Next Top Model: an all-day marathon!

[fast forward to four hours later, me with a glazed expression on my face, eating Doritos out of the bag]

I wonder if Tyra Banks has a permit for that forehead. It’s almost as massive as her ass. I mean, you could, like, play golf on that thing. Her forehead, not her ass. Though I suppose both are suitable. Oh, look, she just remembered she’s black again! Ghetto Tyra, white Tyra, ghetto Tyra, white Tyra. To borrow from the comic wisdom of Dave Chappelle, if Wayne Brady makes Bryant Gumbel look like Malcolm X, then Tyra Banks makes Barbara Walters look like Maya Angelou.

Mmm, Doritos.

God, this is depressing. I should call some of my high school friends. Hmm, who’s still around? Lauren … married to that 30 year old. Allison … pharmaceutically preoccupied. Greg … whipped by his Fascist girlfriend. And the rest are already back at school. Damn.

This has been the longest winter break ever. I should have applied for that position at CVS working the cash register with Pimply Pete, Scabies Sam, and all the other dirty high school dropouts. At least then I’d have something to do every day. But noooooo, I was all like, “I go to Cornell. I need a break.”

I should have applied for those summer internships I was supposed to look into. And those scholarships. And one of those fancy “job” things that all my senior friends have been raving about. Bastards.

School starts in a week. Am I registered? Is my bursar cleared? Most importantly … did I get into Wines??

I wonder if Steph reserved that room at that five star resort for Spring Break ‘07 in Daytona Beach. Otherwise, it’s Hepatitis City at Motel 6. I hope I have enough time to shed some lbs. before bikini season. If I keep this up, they might just offer me my own show at Sea World. Okay, no more Doritos.

Hey! Oprah’s on! Look, it’s a special on that thing at that place with those peop — zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Is she out of the closet yet?

Time to check my e-mail. Maybe someone has been trying to get in contact with me … ha. As usual, Little Sister is firmly implanted at the computer monitor, simultaneously chatting with about 35 people on AIM. All happy and social, rubbing in the fact of her greater popularity. Why, oh why, did I not just get a laptop when I had the chance? To think of my lovely desktop Compaq, rotting away in Ithaca … it’s almost more than I can bear.

I yell at Little Sister to get up, she shoots me a dirty look, I go for the mouse, violence ensues. Swearing I’ll only need “ten minutes” online, an assurance about as believable as Justin Timberlake’s attempt at an acting career or Lindsay Lohan’s sobriety, I am able to wrest control. Muahahaha.

As Webmail loads, I cross my fingers like a Vegas gambler throwing the dice. C’monnnnnnnnnn human contact! Alas, there is none — just multiple advertisements for penis enlargers, porn and consolidating my loans. And a fifteenth stalker-esque e-mail from the U.S. Army medical program wishing me a happy new year and inviting me to enlist for a Better Tomorrow. Thanks, but no thanks, Army — I’m having enough trouble getting through today.

Time for AIM. Oh, no, that annoying girl from freshman Bio is on. Don’t IM me. Don’t IM me. Don’t IM me. Pleaseeeeeee don’t IM me. [Rrrring] “Hey Jax! hows ur break?” CRAP. “Good thx, but I gotta run... talk to you soon hun!” Yeah. Right. Realllll soon.

Why did I sign on, anyway? I don’t actually feel like talking to anyone and admitting how lame my break is. Oh, good, everyone’s got up away messages. Now there’s a good way to kill 12 minutes. Joanna is “Shopping with mommsey.” Samira is “Around.” Alex is “Out” and wants people to “call the cell” if they want to “holler” at him. Yeah, right, like that kid has a life.

Maybe I should work on my thesis. Hahahahahahahaha. That was a good one. I really crack myself up.

Oh, well ...