Hello, readers, stumblers, ex-spouses and prospective employers!
I’ve been blogging so sporadically that I fear I’ve lost even the small readership I’d managed to build (thanks in great part to all of the murmurings of a “Veronica Mars” movie – shame on you, Warner Bros.), and I think a reintroduction may be necessary.
I’ve been living on the West Coast for nearly three months, and I can’t begin to express the adoration I feel for this place. It really must be in the air here, for I can’t imagine being anywhere else. This experience, and the incredible internship I’ve had since I got out here, has been immensely transformative. I fell back in love with journalism, and I wrote nearly everyday, whether in short quips, Gchats, drafts or notes home. I now get compliments on my svelte-lier bod (#humblebrag) from passerby cyclists, and that’s because the Frisco hills have shaped my rockin’ calves. I think, in truth, I regained my swagger, and it’s been a pretty rollickin’ good time.
Next month, well, really, in a few short weeks, I’ll be headed back home to Atlanta for the holidays. My mother has promised a full-scale turkey dinner to repent for my solo status this Thanksgiving. And, soon after, I’ll head back to Evanston for what I truly hope will be my last Chicago winter. Then, it’s off on a new journalistic journey. I will hopefully be purchasing a brand spankin’ new laptop in the next month, so I plan to open 2012 with regular posting. For now, a bit about me; I wrote this during my freshman year of college, and it somehow still rings true:
Coco “President Dancefloor” Keevan (c.1990-present) comes from Georgia, where the peaches grow. She is an actual student at Northwestern University, studying, much to her chagrin, the fine art of journalism. Her focus is on nothing and everything at once, with a concentration in John Cusack, made- for-TV movies and dinosaurs. In 2000, Coco wowed an audience of ten with her dissertation on the sensual powers of marinara sauce. She has a penchant for appropriate musical handclaps and the Culkin brothers, but she abhors the New York Yankees and geographically-named bands. She is oft-compared to a raven-haired Paris Hilton, and she hopes to star in a film or television series with a one-dimensional, awkward Michael Cera. Coco’s verbose nature often gets her into trouble in academics and common society, as she occasionally loses control of her vowel movements and practices the terrible talent of word vomit. Coco has aspirations of one day claiming Mars in the name of Rock’n’Roll. If that doesn’t quite pan out, she’ll settle for a cushy cubicle job at Rolling Stone, eating green M & Ms from the riders of famous musicians and relishing the sweet free merchandise that comes as a perk.
Welcome back to what I hope will be the best incarnation of The Girl With the Dunce Cap yet; I think there may be a bit of a makeover and perhaps even a content overhaul. It should be back with some degree of regularity; I hope you’ll keep reading.