Each Fall an army of eighteen-year-old "adults" floods USF, expecting to finally set foot in the long prophesized "real world." They soon discover that college, and the real world, are whatever these freshmen make of them.  In constructing their identities, most are required to take a basic writing course.

Creative Loafing has chosen four of those students to blog for the Daily Loaf.

These are their rants, insights, fears and hopes...

Years ago, I had hope. The Emmy Academy gave me something to hold on to, something to keep me coming back year after year. With hosts like Garry Shandling and Conan O’Brien, how could I not? (That lanky, redheaded geek could make me watch anything. Fox News. The Wiggles. Anything.) Although the Emmy’s were like watching paint dry, you could rely on the host to take some of that paint and get you high with it. He’d give you just enough to hold you over until his next little quip. There was a connection between the host and viewer: he was our crying shoulder. “I know this is rough,” he’d say, “but we’re going to make it through this together.”

That’s what kept me going; I knew that after the commercial break he would say something just funny enough to get me through the Outstanding Made For Television Movie category. But times have changed, my friends. We can’t just get high with the hosts anymore. No longer are they our crying shoulder. They are the tough loving, beer guzzling dads that slap you around and tell you to be a man...

“I’m not holding your hand through this. You’re going to watch this, and you’re going to like it.” So, wiping the tears from my face. I did.

This year, the Academy kicked things off with the Almighty Oprah. Boy, can this woman draw a crowd. She is the Siren to the rest of the worlds’ Ulysses; we’re helpless. And I know I’m blaspheming when I say this but, unfortunately, Oprah was not enough. The second she walked off stage, the feces hit the fan. The hosts, Ryan Seacrest, Heidi Klum, Jeff Probst, Howie Mandel, and Tom Bergeron, were reminiscent of some pimply prepubescent twelve year olds on their first middle school morning show. The only difference is that the awkward chuckling and amateurish jokes of the middle schoolers wouldn’t have triggered my gag reflex. First of all, Academy, if you’re going to hire Howie Mandel, at least put him on a leash. My ADHD friend actually said to me, “Christ, that guy is hyper.”

And to the rest of the world, stop hiring Ryan Seacrest. Are his 37 shows not enough? I must, though, admit that Jeff Probst was not that bad. Oh, who am I kidding—I’ve watched sixteen seasons of Survivor and having Probst on the Emmy’s was like Rudy playing for Notre Dame. But I digress. Other than that and watching my personal Lord and Savior, Tina Fey, compare the economy to a “turkey burger,” the show had less appeal than a jar of mayonnaise, and I hate mayonnaise.

So, why do I watch? What about seeing richer, more successful, more attractive people win awards for their awesomeness is appealing? Maybe, I enjoy torturing myself by watching other people be recognized for things I wish I were half as good at. Maybe, I want to be a part of the Emmy’s so badly that my only way of dealing with not being able to is to rail against them on a blog, secretly hoping to, some day, win one to rub in the face of a mediocre college writer for bashing my award.