Opinion
By Kristy Burkhardt
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September 9, 2010
Once upon a time, there was a mystical, magical land where beer grew on trees, boys only wore pants and bowties that looked like the Easter bunny threw up on them and textbooks, cigarettes, microwaveable burritos, alcoholic beverages and other pleasantries could be purchased with special currency that magically refilled itself each semester (or with one desperate call to Mom).
This special land was where young idiots from New Jersey (like myself) would go to endure rigorous training to become successful accountants, surgeons, journalists and other boring professions that we swore in third grade we would never succumb to.