Your Awkward Christmas?

Without a doubt, the Christmas season remains my favorite part of the year. But like any other year, there are certain inherently awkward parts of the season that just go hand in hand with the amazing ones. Stuff like...

1.  Awkward Gifting.          
    I walk into my job, and there on the table lay a gift certificate. "Oh, heya Jeff. Boss left that for you." Don't get me wrong here, presents are amazing. Just love the heck outta presents, no matter how thoughtless or silly or small- they're just there. And if they just so happen to be thoughtful or incredibletastic or great, even better!

If not, here's the proper procedure.

But seriously. Am I supposed to give a gift back? If I am, how do I... where do I... what... I mean, let's face it. Getting someone approximately quintiple your age any kind of present is just uncomfortable. Food? Nope. Cosmetics? Definitely not. Gift cards?... hell, that money's better left in the hands of a semi-conscious teenager (me). Really. And WHO gets gifts? In grammar school, some kids got all 19,000 teachers a gift for Christmas; ranging from the impossibly thoughtful to a handful of pens (also thoughftul, since kids never gave pens back after borrowing them), but chances are their parents forced them to write those pathetic, frilly, nicely decorated cards anyway (you know who you are, dastardly fiends). 

 2.    Awkward Relatives.            Luckily, my family has managed to avoid this. We're all close, and unlike every Hispanic family in the history of ever, don't have cousins, nephews, uncles, and aunts numbering in the triple digits all living within half an hour of us.

Each pin represents 10 relatives.

In the end, it's pretty unfeasible getting Uncle Jim a present exceeding the size and value of a pencil. So what I'm saying... is he should expect a pencil. Along with all 80 other uncles.

3. Not Enough Food
 Haha, I'm totally kidding.

4. Cold Weather
There's a point in life when cold weather evolves into a cumbersome, tiring beast. It's that stupid cat of yours that's totally better left outside. And is left outside whenever you can help it. But that point when you grow weary of blisteringly freezing weather, unreasonably enough, without snow, is right about ten minutes after you were born. There's a good reason that Inuits/Eskimos only became good at building igloos while the Aztecs and Mayas were building human-sacrifice pyramids: weather. If you were to bring up isolated tribes that have barely figured out that fire does indeed burn all your fingers, not just most of them, I would walk away casually and disregard you.

This logic you keep speaking of... it's madness!

Luckily, this Christmas season was as fantastic as they come. At one point, my brother in law got me fire starting papers that were wrapped to look like Benjamins and then someone else "accidentally" put wrapping paper over a candle.    It was an exciting Christmas Day.

"I got sand."

Next Stop, College: For now? DMV.

Sometimes, it's cold. Bone-rattling, spine-cracking cold. Usually, these cold days directly coincide with the days when your mom calls out, "Need a jacket?!?" And you simply smirk, walking into the icy mist with your bermuda shorts and t-shirt.

Totally normal behavior for me.

That was the day I ended up going to the DMV and waited on line outside at 8 in the morning on a Saturday; an ungodly hour at best. Getting your permit is one of the few steps towards becoming a real college kid, and one that's pretty easy to put off when your main modes of transportation are:

1. The light-rail in all of its fare-officer dodging glory
2. Footing it, usually in sandals or ill-fitting sneakers
3. Biking on a decrepit piece of metal that needs to be kicked in encouragement every few blocks

On second thought, maybe a car's exactly what I need. But let me say, getting to drive one could really be easier.

First: The lines. Good Lord. When you go to Six Flags and stand in line for Kingda Ka, at least you know you're getting a thrill eventually. Delayed gratification at its finest. But the DMV? Oh. Oh no. Oh, ohhhh no. Finally arriving at the end of a 'queue', as they're known in Britain, doesn't exactly kindle excitement in me. In fact, waiting and actually being served are almost equally horrible experiences. But the lines are incredible, just like accidentally slicing your own thumb off with a dull spoon is incredible. And imagine when DMVs were government run? You could camp out for weeks just to get halfway to the front door... shenanigans like that typify the pre-Internet era, when people were glad for distractions like that. 

This is what the 80s were like.

Next: The people. Nowhere else in America will you experience such a skewed, motley representative demographic of the American peoples. When a line drags itself slower than a turtle through barbed wire, distractions truly are easy to come by. In this case, counting Indians. Looking around "Step 1" of the DMV line, I racked up a head count of 16 Indians out of... 20 people. Given, it was early, and I guess they're all about early birding the worm, but... seriously? If I yelled, "Shah! Patel!" half of the entire building would turn around and stare at me. The oddest thing, though, is that many of these immigrants spoke better English than a majority of people I know or have met, including the Hispanic lady who was attending to me at "Step 29C."

Sketching from memory, she looked something like this.

Last: The silly paperwork. I accidentally filled out "USA" in the county box of my permit application (county, country, all the same!) and was viciously beaten by a troop of DMV commandoes. When I handed another kind, large black man my blue card for my actual permit (after 4 layers of overlapping paperwork and running around counters to fix errors made by other workers) he told me it was going to expire soon and I had to retake the knowledge test. On the spot. At the touch screen station I was ushered to hastily, there was lots of  punching letters and then confirming that yes, indeed, I am sure you're supposed to stop on railway tracks when the red lights flash... right? The passing grade was 40/50, and at 32 right, I had 9 wrong. THIS close to needing to change my dungarees on the spot.

Previously, I've lamented the services of post office workers. In fact, I am now eternally grateful for the wonderful, luminescent, saintly workers of the post office. At least their faces aren't permanently fixed in grimaces and scowls; their mindset one of undying resentment of all humans brazen enough to appear before them... WELL. Am I excited for my driving test or what!

**If you are offended by the mildly offensive racial remarks here, please go chase yourself. And then accept my insincerest apologies.

Gracie's B-day Letter

We continue on with a letter to my sister in law, Gracie Jerschina, or my brother's wife.

Dear Gracie,

Who would have suspected that on the eve of your 22^nd birthday you would find yourself living in a wonderful apartment in a questionable neighborhood with one of the most deranged characters in the city state? I’d hazard a guess and say no one, and if I were wrong, than you must secretly harbor planning skills on par with those of the Joker, which ultimately explains why little children fear you… just kidding. (Most likely.)

On behalf of the entire Jerschina family, I would like to thank you for being such a wonderful in-law. It truly takes a woman of incredible integrity and fortitude, as well as lightheartedness, to participate in Jerschina clan life. Indeed, only a compassionate person of the highest caliber can support Jeremy during these trying times (aka his entire life) and deal with his constant neglect of the most basic necessities of human life. The matter of you keeping him alive does not even seem debatable; we all know you stand directly responsible for feeding, clothing, and supervising him as he barely survives everyday life in charge of hordes of small children.

                We collectively wish you the best of the best in birthday blessings, and take comfort in knowing that another of the more sane Jerschinas has survived another year of chaotic existence. On a more lighthearted note, we submit some wonderful tidbits of Scripture for your further pondering.

Ecclesiastes 11:8
However many years a man may live, let him enjoy them all. 

In the least gloomy and depressing verse Solomon’s narrative about life has to offer, he encourages the reader to live out life to the fullest all the time.    Right here is a biblical mandate to Live the Dream, sis.

Isaiah 46:4
Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.

In all of your juice box-littered and small children-ceaselessly-emitting-noise-and-bodily-fluids-days, our Lord Jesus sustains you. When you lack strength to wrestle another child off of your besieged feet, petition to the Lord for guidance and strength in extracting it (just one of many useful examples on how to interpret this verse).

So Happy Birthday, and welcome to another year of blessings and crazy adventures!

Birthdays: A Change in Pace

Although discussing college and its finer point may be up there in the excitement department next to watching grass grow's cubicle, I've decided for a change in pace, dear reader. Playing along with the 'letters' portion of the title, I'll be posting some birthday letters I've written to friends in the past. I mean, these letters are perfect. They substitute a sappy, expensive card and a sappy, expensive present (in the best of cases, that is). Do enjoy this series!

Yo Mika,

                Happy Birthday! It’s that time of the year when you look back and think to yourself,

“Huh, wow, I was born this day several/few/not so many years ago. Partaaaay!”

So in a sense, this is probably a special day for you. Even if it’s all about the presents (isn’t it always?) and hanging out with friends or whatever, but let me tell you, for me?—all about the food. Definitely. But like I was saying, special day! Birthday! Yaaay! Fun and stuff!... wheeeee.

                One thing I enjoy doing whenever I give someone a present is give them a little note about the present. Which in this case, you are currently reading. If you can read. (I can’t, only write. Tough life.) But as I was thinking and asking advice and texting friends what they would get a girl for their thirteenth birthday, I realized nobody really knew. And at this point, I was forced to rely on my own knowledge and experience of being a thirteen year old girl. So this is when Barbies and the World’s Largest Jelly Bean fell out of play, though I was sorry to be forced to commit such a drastic cut off the potential present list. So, as usual, there was only one viable option: cold, hard, green (though it’s more inky black and faded hempy white) CASH. SALAD. BIG BUCKZ. MULA. DOLLA DOLLA BILLZ, and whatever else you kids call it these days.

But yeah, enjoy your cash. And your birthday, while you’re at it. Though by the time you’re reading this (did I mention I can’t read yet?) it’ll probably be a week later. I put everything off for the last minute too, it’s ok to procrastinate with opening presents. Just kidding, you better be reading this minutes after everyone leaves.

Oh yeah, and happy birthday! God bless, kiddo.

College Acceptance!

"There are 4,146 colleges in the United States. However, screw all the others because we rock, we're the best, and we're #1! Also, you've been accepted. Congrats. We look forward to snagging your money seeing you in September 2012!"


Moving on from beach bumming, I thought it was time to take a look at getting accepted into college. One of my friends was accepted into Yale, full ride, and another got into Brown. Someone else told me you actually have to apply to Rutgers, it's not like high school where you're automatically processed in. Learn sumthin' new everyday! So congrats to all of my pals that got into schools, good riddance- about time!

There's four college-acceptance states of mind right now.

1. "I got into my reach school. HAHA, I RULE! Also, mom, I'm hungry."       Guidance counselors recommend applying from anywhere from 3 to 20 colleges. Guidance counselors also do lots of crack, apparently, which means they're excellent advisers for high-schoolers. But getting into your reach school is great. You're at the top of the world; nobody can touch you, all of your dreams are fulfilled. Four years of constant sunshine, smiling professors, and mind-blowingly amazing cafeteria food await you. Haha, just kidding. Keep in mind that better things cost more, and do your financial aid stuff unless you want have to put down on your resume, "Burger Flipper at McDonald's 2016-2020. BA Philosophy at Harvard Class of 2016." Though I thought going to Harvard automatically means you're given buckets of gold and a snobby Oxford accent.

"Same one you're thinking of, right?..."

2. "Oh god oh god oh god oh god I hope I got into Rutgers/H triple-C."

Some people are alarmingly anxious about everything. Whether it stems from feelings of insufficiency or their ego's deflation during the college application process (probably both), they refresh their Yahoo! email account every 2 minutes and cry into their Scarlet Knights pillow at night and into their Rutgers hoodie during the day. (I'm just picking on Rutgers cause... y'know.) One of my friends got deferred from UPenn, and last I heard of him he suffered a nervous breakdown and was eating his boogers and licking his toes while rocking back and forth on his roof. Naked. Just kidding, he had a pair of pink boxers on his head and two pencil up his nose, so technically...

3. "Broooooo, college is for, like..... duuuuude, whatever, I'll get there eventually!"  If you're anything like me, you're taking it easy. A sea of students around you cry in angst, sending admissions counselors thinly-veiled death threats and pillaging the guidance counselor's office and drawers daily in search of answers to college. And life. But mostly the former. But you, you've got it all figured out. You know when your colleges want their applications, and you- you're coasting along, livin' the dream until they do. And you congregate with like-minded people, simply doing this all day.

Life is good. WHOAAAA! There's a  beach bum's toe lodged in his stomach lining right now.

4. "My reach school?... "VJI. Virginia Janitor's Institute. Pretty rigorous. To show up, you just kinda show up with ten bucks everyday at the back of an A&P there. The main professor is a pretty eccentric guy; his clothes are always threadbare and malodorous, and his pulpit is a dumpster."

For #4, there was never any hope. For #s 1 and 2, take it easy. For #3- keep livin' the dream, brother.

MexicoHarvard WILL pay off.

Beach Bumming: An Indefinite Manifesto

What has two legs, chronic sunburn, and nothing but a loincloth and sunglasses to its name?

THAT'S RIGHT! A beach bum! Though I'd honestly prefer you stop objectifying beach bums. They're people too, you insensitive clod. 

Well, everyone except for whoever lives in this pretentious husk. Beach bums draw the limit at cement sandcastles and cigarette bungalows. Hmph.

Sure, there's lots of appeal to becoming a beach bum, you may say, but what about, like, life? Well, what about it? If your parents ever loved you (and just look at you... doubtful at best), then they'll be happy to let you wander around beaches nearly nude as crabs slice open your feet and the skin peels off your body like  snakeskin. Otherwise, the only reason they ever raised a child was to live off of its fruit when they grow older- in other words, they secretly believe you're a fruit tree.Assuming you're an independent human, let the completely objective analysis of beach-bumming continue at its best. If not, then... oh, goodness, the fruit trees. THEY'RE READING MY BLOG! And alive, I guess. Eh.

            The main tenet of beach bumming has yet to be created and instituted. Why? Beach bums are busy doing amazing things, like surfing on scrapped car doors and panhandling on boardwalks. A life filled with excitement and natural wonder holds no room for meaningless cultural pursuits like this "hygiene" and "intelligible communication" everyone keeps talking about all the time.

WGHZYITT? RRRR!

            What this means, is that you don't have rules. No curfew (as if that existed either way), no designated mealtimes (or permanent definition of "food"), and noone looking over your shoulder trying to tell you cigarette butt necklaces aren't art! And yet, with a great lack of rules comes... nothing, I guess. The ocean is your brother, the beach is your mother, and the sun looking down in you in withering scorn would probably be your resentful father. I mean, take a look at Lord of the Flies. They tried to have rules and they ended up burning down a forest and squashing an asthmatic kid with a boulder. Rules are another way of saying you hate asthmatic kids, and that kind of intolerance will not be tolerated. Unless you're on a beach. Because, well, there are no rules on a beach.

What's that, gravity? I can't hear you over the sound of how awesome I am.

Well, unless you're on the same beach as the Jersey Shore cast. Then the only rule is aim for the face, but I digress.

Beach-Bumming: A Perfunctory Overview

It depresses me. Just think about it. All of those poor, poor souls out there who simply err in their modus operandi of life. Picture the most depressed, sullen, lifeless worker-drone in the workplace you can possible imagine. Now, step away from the mirror and try again. What comes to mind- Truck-driver? Walmart greeter? Any government job? Ask yourself now, is college a way out of this durdgery, or a circuitous mountain path that will end up with you driving off the same cliff you would've anyway?

Pictured: You with or without college.

They got there somehow, whether it was a series of poor decisions, apathy, or glorious half-assery (or a stuck accelerator)... and honestly, social mobility loses its novelty when you have a family and a refrigerator. The answer, my pathetic reader, lay in the rest of this how-to guide for beach bumming. Graphic, tantalizing, and actually not really those last two, it's all here.

First: Pity those poor fellows who want to be doctors, male nurses, or anything involving the Hippocratic Oath and trying to help cranky and malodorous sick people. I mean, sure, you'll eventually get paid boatloads of money, but in the meantime, you need to go to 18 years of med school (HAVE FUN PAYING FOR THAT) and study all the bones and other weird stuff encased in human flesh, and chances are you'll still end up amputating the wrong frikkin' arm somewhere down the road. As a beach bum, the human allows himself to shirk all responsibility and become a self-sufficient parasite. There's no schooling. You don't work, except for when your stomach begins acidifying itself from hunger, and that's that.

So this, except on a beach.

Second: The beach bum is a self-sufficient, parasitic, resourceful bum, unlike many other subclasses of bum around the world. The Beach Bum is the highest caste of bum, the Aryan race of bum, the Hahhh-vaahd kind of bum. Imagine, good reader, the lack of responsibility the beach bum enjoys, surviving on as little as 15 dollars a month (all spent on tanning lotion and feather glue, tell ya in a moment).

• Shelter: Build a sandcastle with some cement that you "found" and make a bed out of seagull feathers.
• Showers: All beaches have public showers, or, y'know, the ocean could always work. Duh.
• Relationships: Like all respectable beach bums, you need to join a local beach bum commune and union. Unfortunately, all of their communications and documents are written in the wet sand and... um... yeah.
• The government: Will never find you. You're on a beach. Beaches are filled with joy and happiness, and clearly off-limits to all government employees.
• Food: Your aforementioned bed is also a costume, which allows a beach bum to transform into a gigantic seagull and steal food under the guise of, well, a mutated skybeast. 

So this, except on a beach.

Dear reader, I hope this cursory how-to article on beach bumming has begun to give you a perspective on how wonderful a life beach-bumming can be. However, I've merely covered the most fundamental of topics here, and haven't even begun discussing the advantages of being shirtless, hungry, and by the ocean for all your life. (Like everyone in Cuba, except in SoCal!)

CollegeThefts and the Beach

"Wow, five colleges? That's alot. Like, woaaaaah." (just kidding about the last bit)

That's what someone blurted out in their decades old-knowledge of college-applification processes when I lowballed them with a five college application estimate. Seriously, five colleges aren't that many... though I'll probably defer to four. Seriously, who, other than masochistic serial killers and disassociated geniuses (genii?) would apply to more than 6 colleges? The most common defenses:

1. You're a secretly a serial killer looking for quarries filled with mines of easily developed relationships.
2. "Why not?"
3. "Listen, I only have twelve safeties and eight reach schools. Can't be too sure these days..."
4. "It's just to see if I can get in. (And kill everyone.)"
5. "Listen, I only have four safety schools(!), (and three of them are Rutgers.) Can't be too sure these days. Wait, I submitted four separate applications, one for each campus. Is that how?..."
6. "Nine's just a nice number. It has this... mysterious ambiance. Of serial killeryness."
7. Dangit Jeff, stop implying I'm a serial killer!

"This is actually my nice face."

                 It's safe to say that American society has bloated expectations for just about everything. College is not exception. I'd venture a guess and say that a vicious cycle of feelings of insufficiency, the behests of admissions officers, and simply culture itself has steered us into an adolescent frenzy of collegehoodness. And not the where-I-live hood, the suffix hood kinda hood. Still with me?

                 There isn't a wrong college to go to if you've researched it and you know you want to go there. At the top of my list stand the following colleges: Wheaton and Westmont. Both choices are easy to justify, and I know exactly why I would like to attend each college. In a walnut shell (normal shells are so mainstream):

Wheaton- top Christian college in the US. Full of rich white kids and has an ROTC program. In suburban Chicago, which I hear enjoys wind. And more wind. And then more wind... disguised as rain.

Westmont- The other day, I hop into the car with my pops and he turns and asks me," Jeff, what's your obsession with the West Coast and California colleges? I think you hit your head when you were a little guy." Westmont embodies Livin' the Dream, that's why I'm obsessed! It's a Christian colleges five minutes away form the beach, it's in Cali, small prof-student ratio, they're selective enough for my taste, and they have a very, very nice looking female-male ratio, chyaknowImtalkingabout? And it's five minutes away from the beach. And it's in Cali. And everyone knows serial killers are scared of beaches and SoCal.

"I have a philosophy degree. Just kidding, this is where I'd end up anyway. That or shoe-shining in Istanbul."

Backup: Westmont is good for another reason, a reason so disingenuous it belies my very nature of being a cultured, dancy gentleman (haha, riiiiight): it lay on a hillside five minutes from the beach. So, even if I don't get in (or just plain give up on college after a week of classes) the option of beach bum remains, standing on the sandy golden Cali shores, beckoning to me with its finely chiseled arms and dollar-menu-crumb decorated hobo beard. If I need to elaborate on the perks of beach-bumming, then the rest of this sentence
(mouse over to reveal text due to censored content).

Haha, fooled ya. (Or not, in which case I feel dirty about pretending to be vulgar and stupid. Double whammy, kiddo. Next time be gullible, jerk.)
Really, I'm just bitter about people being so proactive and pro-stealing-spots-they-don't-even-want-in-colleges. In the meantime, I'll be figuring out if any colleges offer vocational training for beach-bumming. Another article on that, dear reader, on another day. And yes, I assume there's only one of you. Pathetic? Maybe. Realistic?... *sobs into board shorts and wipes with beach towel* yes...

About those motorcycles...

"Many years ago when my friend taught me to ride [a motorcycle], he gave me this simple piece of advice. "Just remember two things," he said. "Nobody can see you, and everyone is out to kill you." " - Anonymous blockhead on Yahoo


Something about riding a motorcycle simply appeals to me, and seemingly also appeals to the stupidity and bravado of thousands of other tools and morons as well. There's simply some alluring quality of a motorcycle; a certain essence emanating from it that appeals to the primeval instincts of men- be it the hellsome noise, incredible speed, or logic-defying recklessness, it's there.


And that little quote up top there simply calls to mind Catch 22's Yossarian, a man paranoid of all his comrades and superiors in his Air Wing Combat Squadron, because although everyone's not out to get Yossarian, everyone's out to get Yossarian.
Ponder for a moment the various activities with which the average female teenage driver occupies herself whilst, and instead of, doing something so absurd as, pfft, driving a car. Two ton metal husk barreling across a streak of tar? No problem; time to text, do makeup, eat breakfast, and fix that wedgie... er, simultaneously. 

The fact remains that two tons of metal, according to what I suspect to be at least most laws of physics imply, can collide with three hundred pounds of strident motorcycle and cocooned flesh and shrug it off immediately. (refer once again to the lovely face above for the average reaction)
And yet, despite the overwhelming odds of death or injury stemming from simply looking at a motorcycle, men full of bravado and empowered by masculine invincibility (it's there until you actually need it) waltz into car dealerships or eBay motors and decide to basically sign a waiver of pending vehicular suicide; a.k.a. buy a motorcycle. Honestly, the best option in this case is simply to break your own leg and sand a few pounds of skin off your least favorite leg and arm on the spot... and then reconsidering the decision.


Unfortunately, none of this will stop me if I ever get to Cali to college. Livin' the dream checklist:

• Go to college in California
• Swim obnoxiously often
• Buy a motorcycle and ramp off boardwalks to get into the lung-icing water (preferable to wading in)
• Live the dream s'more.

Rutgers Essay

I forgot what the prompt, but that will do little to stop me from posting my Rutgers admissions essay. Too sensationalist? Boo-hoo. Too brazen and tongue-chokingly funny? A tad. But consider for a moment that these poor admissions fellows, enclosed in their itty bitty offices, have to read thousands of illiterate, boring, mangled essays for a living. They probably perfect speed-reading after two days in their careers... Imagine...

"Hmm, he knows words. Good. *Grunt* More essays. More eat.... *Grunt* Person use vocabulary bad. Gr. No like..."

I defer to my first mini-college admissions opus.




“Is the couch fine for ya? The rotten orange smell’s been there for awhile.”

“Um, I’ll be fine, thanks!”

Couchsurfing is something everyone should try- it’s basically arranging sleepovers while traveling, sans the mass murderers. Traveling runs in my family. One of my grandfathers would travel around the US and Britain giving sociology lectures, my parents would find summer jobs all around Poland while in University, and my brothers went on a two week trip around Iceland last year exclusively to hitchhike and climb through the entire country. I’ve traveled extensively in Poland and Greece, and breezed through Germany, the Czech Republic, and Slovakia a few times.

One of the most enjoyable secrets of traveling lay in going out on a limb- talking to strangers, taking public transportation, and making unexpected friends. But throwing caution to the wind doesn’t limit itself to traveling in my case…

“Jeff, I can’t believe you’re taking dance this year! Serious?”

“Jack of all trades, master of some, kiddo. I’m serious.”



I learn for the sake of learning, and taking dance as my senior major epitomizes the “Scientia potesta est” mantra that I hold so dear. My favorite field of study is writing; I love writing letters, cards, and essays, always flavored heavily with subtle humor. Dance opened up a whole new world of writing to me- one of movement, pirouettes, tap dancing, and good Lord, she really just did that with her leg.

Though I would normally hesitate to say that I am an interesting person, after deep reflection, my life would intrigue even the mythological evil twin of Davy Jones, Coldhearted Jones. I am a writer, gentlemen, scholar, and almost a dancer (much harder to learn than it looks). Clearly, Rutgers would make an absolutely fantastic home away from home. As a seasoned learner and magnetic leader, I offer Rutgers a top notch pupil that aspires towards excellence. As a Christian who goes to a Filipino Baptist church, I offer Rutgers a solid, honest character which encourages and inspires others.



At Rutgers, thousands of driven young adults strive to learn and achieve great things in a widely ranging spectrum of educational fields. Each one of them stands capable of helping me to learn more and expand my worldview to span cultures, languages, and various “ologies”. Professors eagerly await new students, and counselors anxiously expect scholars to advise. Social events patiently count the minutes until slews of hungry undergrads flock, and multicultural mingling parties expectantly tarry for every last nationality. As a fine educational institution filled with bright staff and students, Rutgers lacks little.