The Church vs. John Cena

An honest man can sell a fake diamond if he says it is a fake diamond, ain't it?

--Jack Pfefer, wrestling promotor, in 1934

Many of you don't know this, but I'm a professional wresting fan. I know it's not real, but I choose to act like it is. I keep kayfabe.

No, that's not a made-up word. Like the mythical languages of Middle Earth, professional wrestling has its own nomenclature. But you should never say "kayfabe" to industry professionals, because that is breaking kayfabe. Let me explain. 

Kayfabe is defined as the code of secrecy that undergirds the pro wrestling industry by which the secret of its unreality is protected. To "keep kayfabe" is the act of staying in character before, during, and after shows so as to maintain the illusion.

Live the illusion. Don't wink. Endure to the end. Keep kayfabe.

But there was a time in the 90's when, for wrestling to survive, WWF Presidnet Vince McMahon had to break kayfabe. I still remember, when I was about 6, watching a documentary at my grandma's house called "Professional Wrestling EXPOSED!" This was on network television, during primetime. 60 Minutes also ran an expose on wrestling--the same news show that later exposed Abu Ghraib. Hard-hitting journalists were catching wrestling red-handed in the illusion. It wasn't that hard to see--when wrestling came on national television, the wrestlers looked like they were fighting with pool noodles instead of arms.

If you say it's real, then you're a sucker for watching it. If you say it's fake, then you're a sucker for watching it. No matter what--the media made you feel like a sucker.

So Vince McMahon orchestrated the Montreal Screwjob. He created an unscripted ending that robbed fan favorite Bret Hart of the championship belt. After Bret's defeat, he spit in McMahon's face (real spit), then found him backstage and punched him (real punch), causing McMahon to have a real black eye. 

But McMahon had to do an interview the next day. WWF's writers wondered what the story should be. McMahon couldn't tell the truth and expose himself as the man behind the curtain, could he? 

In a move of utter brilliance, McMahon did exactly that. He broke kayfabe. He explained how he fixed the match. And he created a new character for himself: the conniving, greedy, manipulating Mr. McMahon.

Wrestling wouldn't have survived unless McMahon plunged it into the haze between truth and fiction. By winking at the audience and telling the truth, he gave wrestling fans a way out. He knew that a knowing wink is a huge relief to someone who has to defend his love of irreverent storylines, cartoonish characters, and extreme brutality. 

We don't have any McMahon's in church leadership, but we do have this guy and a stock photo of a woman eating:

...very...very...slowly. Elder Durrant gave the greatest winking talk of the century, but the rest of the church seems to be clinging to the illusions of the past. 

My church just doubled-down on an interesting doctrine. Same-sex marriage is now tantamount to apostasy and draws a comparison to polygamy. My church said that children adopted by same-sex couples cannot be blessed as babies nor baptized until they are adults who live apart from their parents, and opposed to same-sex marriage. My reaction to all this was the way John Cena reacts to the Russian Flag:

My wife, on the other hand, channeled her inner Roddy Piper (my wife's bat is made out of internet memes):

Do they not see how hard this is? We all sing Follow the Prophet, but we wink at each other when Brigham Young or Bruce R. McConkie is quoted. But leadership doesn't wink back because of the infallibility doctrine, found in tiny print in Official Declaration 1:

"The Lord will never permit me or any other man who stands as President of this Church to lead you astray. It is not in the programme. It is not in the mind of God. If I were to attempt that, the Lord would remove me out of my place..."

Besides the superfluous spelling of "program", do you see the problem? The church can't claw back! There's no Montreal Screwjob! We always have to double down on existing doctrine--even as the fruit of that doctrine starts to rot. And we end up with ideas like asking children to declare that their same-sex parents live in an apostate relationship, which would be laughable if it wasn't so strange. The church, by an unrelenting pursuit of virtue, has turned public heel.

So now we get temple recommend interviews that look like this:

Bishop: Do you support any apostate groups?
Member: I support gay marriage.
Bishop: That's okay--it's not an apostate group.
Member: Yeah it is. There's a bullet in your manual below Polygamists.

The Mormon Church is difficult because you have to take the doctrine as supremely important to salvation, but at the same time, worth a grain of salt. You have to wink at it, or its utter seriousness will destroy you. The infallibility doctrine is at the root of this mess. It's time for the church to throw it out and wink back. It's time to break kayfabe.

Heavenly Mother is Worried Sick

There is a dead end near my house that my father likes to reminisce about. When we drive by it, he recalls with fondness the many hours he slept there.

When I was a teenager, I had a curfew. Since I considered a curfew more of a suggestion, rather than a rule, I disobeyed a lot. I mean, a lot. And not by five or then minutes. I’m talking hours.

The way my dad tells the story, at the two-hours-late mark, my mom would wake him and tell him to get in the car and drive around until he found my body. She told him to start at Del Taco. (Obviously.)

My dad would then drive approximately twenty seconds, park the car at the neighborhood's dead end, recline his seat, and snooze until his phone rang.

“Honey, he’s home,” my mom would say.

“Oh good. I was worried sick. I'm just on Main Street now – be home in a few.”

And he fell asleep for another then minutes.

• • • 

My dad was a great father. The very best. 

But my mother didn’t sleep until I was home. And when I got home, she wanted to talk. Not about my punishment—but about my night.

My favorite memory of my mom is just before Kristi and I got engaged. We were visiting my house for the all-important parental approval and decided, late one night, to go to the beach and listen to the waves crash. Three hours later, after we were done making out listening to the waves crash, we realized the keys had fallen out of my pocket and into the sand. We spent an hour searching for them, and then I made what seemed like a good decision at the time: walking home.

We arrived at 3AM. Every light was on, the garage door was up, the car was gone.

I walked in to the living room to find my mom in tears. She ran up to us both and hugged us. Then she stepped back and said "Why didn’t you call?! I am so angry with you I could scream! Let me make you some hot chocolate. DO YOU WANT SOME HOT CHOCOLATE?"

And she lit the stove to make us hot chocolate. And we talked for an hour.

• • •

I thought of these two stories as I read my church’s new essay on our Heavenly Mother. The essay talks about the foundations for our belief in a Mother in Heaven, holding equal standing with our Father in Heaven. As President Harold B. Lee once said:

“We forget that we have a Heavenly Father and a Heavenly Mother who are even more concerned, probably, than our earthly father and mother [1], and that influences from beyond are constantly working to try to help us when we do all we can.”

Joseph Smith, it appears, personally taught the doctrine of Heavenly Mother. And yet the revelations on Heavenly Mother seem to end with him. What we have from prophets and apostles after him rehash the same truth. 

Eliza R. Snow: “In the heav’ns are parents single? No, the thought makes reason stare; truth is reason—truth eternal tells me I’ve a mother there.

Recent Church statement: “As with many other truths of the gospel, our present knowledge about a Mother in Heaven is limited. Nevertheless, we have been given sufficient knowledge to appreciate the sacredness of this doctrine and to comprehend the divine pattern established for us as children of heavenly parents. Latter-day Saints believe that this pattern is reflected in Paul’s statement that "neither is the man without the woman, neither the woman without the man, in the Lord". Post-Joseph teachings default to logic, reason, and the pattern reflected in Paul’s statement [2]. 

Gordon B. Hinckley: “Logic and reason would certainly suggest that if we have a Father in Heaven, we have a Mother in Heaven. That doctrine rests well with me.”

The doctrine “rests well” with Gordon B. Hinckley even though, “none of us can add to or diminish the glory of her of whom we have no revealed knowledge.” Ouch. President Hinckley then goes on to list quotes from the New Testament, where Jesus references only the Father in prayer, as scriptural evidence against praying to Heavenly Mother.

But wait a second. Did the Church just use the scriptures to stop the worship of a God who isn’t in the scriptures? We believe in Heavenly Mother, who is not in the scriptures, but we shouldn't pray to Her because She's not in the scriptures. Should we really not pray to a female diety simply because Jesus never made mention? [3] 

“The fact that we do not pray to our Mother in Heaven in no way belittles or denigrates her,” President Hinckley says. True—but it doesn’t help Her come alive in our hearts either [4]. 

I can’t imagine coming home late at night as a teenager and saying to my mom, “Sorry mom—I only talk to dad about my day.” That is the dissonance the Church is creating here. We believe in a Mother in Heaven, who cares for us more than our earthly mother, but we shouldn’t talk to her in prayer, because that's weird [5].

Think of how much we know about Heavenly Father—not much. When He speaks, it’s only to introduce His Son. And yet, because we speak of him in church, during family home evening, and in our prayers, our Heavenly Father is real and alive to us. Our leaders never defer to logic, reason, or the pattern found in an obscure scripture to justify their believe in Heavenly Father. 

Addressing a prayer to Heavenly Father was revolutionary and groundbreaking—a tectonic shift in our understanding of God. Because of it, we can picture Him. We seek to understand Him. Why can't we move forward by acting on the additional light given to us by Joseph Smith?

“As with many other truths of the gospel, our present knowledge about a Mother in Heaven is limited.” Is it limited because we, ourselves, limit it?

I’ve always imagined my Heavenly Parents like my real ones. And the last thing I want is for my Heavenly Mother to ask me, as she makes hot chocolate, why I never called.

---

[1] If this is the case, then I have kept my Heavenly Mother awake and worried for approximately 30 years and 7 months. I hope there’s a dead-end somewhere on Kolob for Father.

[2] As a fun side-note: biblical scholars believe Paul’s teaching of the importance of the Gentiles is the reason Luke attributed words to Jesus that he probably didn’t say.

[3] There are many saying attributed to Jesus that he probably didn’t say. Consider Mark 4:12, what Jesus says about some of the Jews—“That seeing they may see, and not perceive; and hearing they may hear, and not understand; lest at any time they should be converted, and their sins should be forgiven them.” This is literally the opposite of Jesus’ mission, likely written and attributed to Him by someone wishing to spur the development of Paul’s mission to the Gentiles. If things can be added, they can be removed. Also, Jesus drank wine. Just throwing it our there.  

[4] Even as I write this, Microsoft Word thinks “Her” shouldn’t be capitalized—there’s a blue squiggly line under it. But it has no issue capitalizing “Him” mid-sentence. Come on, Bill!

[5] Praying to a woman isn't that weird. See Catholicism. 

Le Premiere Danseuse

They watched the sunrise together. She wanted to go to a flea market on the water's edge. He wanted to go to the park (so naturally, they went to the flea market).

They weaved in and out of faded sweaters, used books, handmade jewelry, and chairs with cracked paint. They lingered at a table littered with baseball cards, vintage magazines, and other knickknacks. She pulled something from the clutter and fell in love with it.

It was a flipbook, no longer than the wrinkle in her palm. A fortune teller had read that wrinkle once, and had prophesied she would live to be ninety-two. If the average lifespan is eighty years, and women usually live five years more than men, I'll live eight years without you. 

She set the flipbook in motion. The pictures were in black and white. A simple girl doing a simple cartwheel.

“I just love little things like this."

“Like what?”

“The girl—I wonder who she was and why they didn't let her finish.”

“Finish what?”

“The kiss.”

She held the flipbook to his eyes. It was called Le Premiere Danseuse, and he saw it all in a flutter of breath. A girl does a cartwheel then stands, raises her elbows, and covers her mouth.

“Maybe she’s not blowing a kiss,” he said. “Maybe she’s embarrassed, like she didn’t know she was being filmed.”

“No, she’s about to blow a kiss. You can tell by how she’s bent forward.”

The man turned to the woman behind the table. “How much for the flipbook?”

The saleswoman smacked her gum. “I think my boyfriend wants five dollars for it.”

“Can we get it?” his wife pleaded. She normally bought everything for herself, never asking permission (to his dismay, at times). Yet here she was--seeking approval for a five-dollar trinket. She was not asking him to buy the flipbook. She was asking him to want it. He nudged her. “Let’s keep looking and come back.”

***

He held her hand and they walked on, past a table with old photographs. Antique cameras sat on a rack above pictures, cameras that looked like accordions with price tags reading: "Still works. Film available at Such-and-Such Store. $175." 

She held a black accordion camera in her hands. "I wonder what this lens has seen."

Her husband agreed and told her he’d always heard old cameras take better pictures with film than the newer digital ones. He looked at the price tag. “That’s a little above my pay grade."

“For now,” she winked at him. He hated the pressure of those words.

The old man selling the cameras noticed them and chimed in. “You can't find cameras like this anymore!"

“Let’s keep walking around,” the husband said. “We shouldn’t buy the first thing we see.” As they walked off, he prayed the black accordion camera would be gone when they came back.

***

They moved to handmade jewelry. There were necklaces made of old subway tokens dangling from brass chains.

“How much for the token necklace?” he asked a tattooed woman. She told him it was $25.

“That’s pricey for a fifty-cent token,” he said. “I’ll give you twenty.”

“Sorry. Wholesale prices.”

His wife looked at him. “This would be a great keepsake to remember our trip!” She tried it on and the woman gave her a dusty mirror. The necklace hung perfectly, just above the freckle on her chest.

He thought about the necklace. It was functional, unlike the flipbook, and could be used daily, unlike the camera. So he bought it, and she flashed a smile that made him want to buy every antique camera in the world. He gripped her hand with excitement and said, “Let’s go back to the camera stand.”

***

A group of college students stood in front of the shelf, listening to the old man’s pitch about film cameras. The husband practically pushed his way through them. In the row of cameras, one spot was vacant: the black accordion. The old man noticed him staring at the empty space. “These cameras go fast,” he said. “People wait in a line to buy them.”

His wife was sad. We should have bought it when we had the chance--my husband, the cheapskate! He could read her mind, but she didn't say these things. She noticed he felt bad. “I’m glad we didn't buy it. It was a little expensive.”

“Yeah.”

But it was his fault, and he knew it. He hated how he'd wished the camera was gone. He hated the voice that told him his wife was emotional, and he should be rational--the one that made marriage a teeter-totter instead of a swing set. It was a lie, and yet he still listened. The camera was gone. Someone was going to the film store to buy special film for it right at that moment.

They found a box of old records. Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, and so forth. She started thumbing through them--there were dozens inside. He took two steps away. She didn't look up. Two more steps. Still, no.

He dashed to the table of knickknacks. There, under the Batman comic book where he'd left her, with her arms outstretched, laid Le Premiere Danseuse. He quickly grabbed five dollars from his pocket and pushed it into the gum-smacker’s hands. He looked over at his wife, who was flipping through the last remaining albums. There was no time to get back. He took two strides to a hat stand and put on a black fedora, just as she looked up and began searching for him.

“Do you like this hat? I look pretty good, eh?” he said. She rolled her eyes and laughed.

They left the flea market--her with a subway token jingling round her neck and him with flipbook burning a hole in his pocket. Only one other thing had burned like that before. 

You sure she’s the one?

No, Dad.

Then why are you marrying her?

Because I want to be with her forever.

Even if she’s not the one?

Even if she’s not the one.

Even if you've been sleeping on the couch for a month, and you’re sitting in a restaurant alone, and another woman walks up, and there’s a connection you've never felt. And then the sky opens up and God comes down and tells you this new woman is wonderful. And your wife is waiting for you at home, cold and angry.

Yes, even if all that.

Then she’s the one.

***

They walked home under the moon. He held her hand, felt her shiver. He took off his coat and wrapped her in it, glancing once at the speckled city on the river.

“I think you were right about the girl,” he said.

“What girl?”

“The one from the flipbook.”

“You think she was blowing a kiss?” she asked. He could see her breath.

“Yes."

“Me too,” she said, almost relieved. “I liked the flea market. I like how it’s full of other people’s memories, like a scrapbook of the country. There are stories, and the only thing I know about them is that they happened.”

He laughed. “Quite profound!"

They walked in silence for a while. The skyscrapers across the river burned like candles.

“Today was a perfect day,” she said. "I just wish—"

Before she could finish, he reached into his pocket and slipped La Premiere Danseuse into the palm of her hand— a window of endless cartwheels and almost-blown kisses.

Something You Should Know About My Wife

Ladies and gentleman, this is Kristi.

This is Kristi on the last leg of a 50-mile run through the Grand Canyon. I think I was wrapped in blankets and watching reruns of The Wonder Years on Netflix when this picture was taken. Kristi is a badass. When she's not putting on her badassery clinic, she is smoking hot.

Actually, that's her doing a velociraptor impression. Wrong picture.

Ahh, that's better. And, just so she doesn't get pissed at me...

she's really smart, too. 

Two days ago, Kristi and I ran the St. George Marathon. We had been training for four months--doing a long run of about 15 miles every week during that time period. We survived by listening to books-on-tape and timing our runs around TNT action movie marathons. Believe me--there's nothing like watching Terminator II with the sound off. Or The Matrix. Or Backdraft. Or Terminator II again.

But we slogged through it to qualify for the Boston Marathon. I should put that in all caps and throw an exclamation point at the end, like this: THE BOSTON MARATHON! because THE BOSTON MARATHON! is nothing but a crazy party for runners. Imagine a bunch of fit people discussing the pros and cons of Gu vs. Clif gel packets. Imagine a race with distractions like screaming coeds giving out free kisses and dudes handing out beer. That is THE BOSTON MARATHON!

To qualify, Kristi had to run the St. George Marathon in 3 hours and 35 minutes. We felt good when we started the race. It was cold, but the wind was blowing against our backs, and the first seven miles were downhill. However, miles 7-13 were like ascending the freaking Agro-Crag (for all you GUTS fans). Remember when a kid would be climbing the Agro-Crag, and he would keep going even after the bell rang? The announcer would be like, "Okay, it's over!" but the kid would just keep climbing even though he knew a Glowing Piece of the Radical Rock was not waiting for him at the top?

Kristi is like that kid. She knew she wasn't going to make her time at mile 19. She tried to run with her pacer, but the pacer slowly pulled ahead, then disappeared in the distance. Her dad called me and told me she wasn't going to make it. I figured she would walk the rest of the way, because having finished the race myself, I knew how crazy-difficult and crazy-painful the last seven miles were. I figured she might quit. That's what I would have done. You work for four months to run a certain time--so when you know you're not going to make it, what's the point of trying? It's devastating.

But she didn't quit. She ran her legs into the ground. It stopped being about the time, and started being about "I'm not gonna let this course kick my ass". She came in only six minutes off her goal time.

If she would have met her goal, I would have been proud of her. I expected that. But I did not expect her to keep pushing herself even when her goal was out of sight. That says something about her. I respect her for it. The girl's got GUTS.

The Difference Between a Father and a Dad

When you are 2 hours late for curfew, your father is waiting outside in his pajamas to punish you by saying "You're an idiot." Then your dad laughs and says "But I was one too when I was your age."

Your father takes you to a baseball game. And your dad buys you one of those 6 dollar plastic batting helmets with the scoop of ice cream in them (your dad is also the one who complains about the price).

Your father tells you not to swear. Your dad then goes and swears.

Your father wants to have long father/son talks, but it's your dad who wants to have them on a golf course.

My father bought me my first baseball. My dad then took me to an empty field and lobbed tennis balls at me until I was no longer afraid of getting hit by the baseball.

Father wanted to play games with us so that we could bond as a family, and dad got out the poker chips and started Boyce Family Poker Night.

Your father tells you the rules, then forgives you when you break them. Your dad does all of this at Del Taco.

My father wrote me a spiritual thought every week while I was on my mission. My dad used some of that time to give me a quick surf report.

My father taught us children how to work, but my dad taught us how to have fun at work.

My father is my mentor. My dad is my friend.

Thank God for fathers, but thank heaven for dads. I'm lucky to have both.

The Moment I Became A Feminist

I'm a feminist, and here's why.

This weekend, my wife, her sister, her best friend, and I went to the Macklemore concert in St. George. We stood out in the cold and rain with five thousand college students and Macklemore repaid us by putting on a fantastic show. He rapped about baseball and thrift-shopping, which is a big reason why I like his music. Then the music stopped. He hushed the crowd and said into the microphone, reverently,

"This next song," he said, "is about acceptance."

The crowd cheered. "Same Love!" they yelled. 

Macklemore straightened up. 

"This next song is about compassion."

The crowd went berserk. 

Then Ryan Lewis laid down a soft piano riff. And Macklemore started to sing about tolerance and same-sex rights and how we should treat gay people with respect. The crowd sang along, including me. I like the song. It preaches tolerance and love, asking us to respect those around us, regardless of their sexual-orientation. 

The song ended and the crowd cheered. Macklemore then started a song called "Castle", which is about what he would do if he owned a castle. Here's a sample:

I got a cutey and I'm making a beat on her booty

Like I was up on the roof beating up on a bongo

and later...

Your thighs are the closet to Narnia

Is it cool if I go and get lost in that?

and one more...

Girl's booty was bigger than the stomach of Rick Ross'

Holy mother mountain of tender tendin' you get lost in

Bounce, bounce, that castle booty, that bottom

Make it wobble, wobbly-wobble 'til my third leg has to hobble

Now, I'll admit, I couldn't understand the lyrics while I was there. The concert was a lot of fun. It wasn't until after I downloaded the song that I realized the disparity that exists in society:

We preach love and respect for 5% of the population while we demean and indignify 50%.

I think what upset me most is that I thought about how I would feel if Macklemore were talking about my sisters, or my friends, or my wife with those lyrics. As a society, we get angry when someone says "that's gay," but we sing along with "See what's poppin' at the malls, meet a bad bitch, Slap her booty with my ****s."

I'm also angry at Macklemore. By cultivating the impression you are respectful and above all that "rapper nonsense", you make your young, impressionable listeners feel like it's okay to talk about women like you do. How can you be so upset about society's abuse of the word "gay" while you promote the abuse and objectification of an entire gender?

Mackelmore is right: if I were gay, I'd think hip hop hates me. But if I was a woman, I'd think hip hop hates me, too.

What I Wish I'd Known In College

I have sisters and brothers who are either in college or about to begin. I'm writing this post to them. I'm writing because I want them to know what life is really like, and to be prepared for the moment when they take their diploma, walk off the stage, and realize that life is not what they had expected.

Your whole life everyone around you has said that you can be anything you want to be. And that's true, but they didn't tell you everything. There's a big part they left out. All they have done, really, is given you a treasure map with a big "X" in the middle, but no path to follow. It's great to stare at the big "X' and know the treasure's out there, but it becomes depressing when you leave college, with your degree, and you realize that the degree doesn't have a path on it, either.

Then you'll wonder if it was even worth it. You'll think, "I have a degree. I know stuff. Why won't anybody hire me?"

When you start to think that, please remember that your degree is not worthless. Every degree, from the liberalist of liberal arts to the nerdiest BS, has distinguishable merit. You know how to think, you know how to write, perhaps you know some math. But you don't know how to get a career.

Isn't it funny? The one thing you need--the path to the "X"--isn't taught to you in college.

They teach you that life after college is like a game of checkers: you only move forward. But that's a lie too. Life after college is more like a game of Monopoly.

If you remember, in Monopoly, the goal is to collect as many properties as possible. These properties can then be used to earn you profit; they can be traded to further your goals; they can be used as collateral in a bankruptcy. They can do almost anything once you have them in your possession. But they do nothing if you pass them buy (especially if you go to jail).

Monopoly is a game of collecting. The more properties you have, the more value your collection is worth on the board. The more houses you own in a specific sector, the more your profit from that property grows.

Now, please don't think I am telling you to graduate and then immediately take out a loan and build a hotel on the boardwalk. That's now what I'm saying. But, you do need to build on the board, just not houses or hotels.

You need to build relationships.

80% of jobs are given to friends, relatives, or good acquaintances. That means that, out ten resumes you submit, eight of them are thrown in the trash before they're even read. Eight. 

That's why I laugh when I hear about resume classes on campus as being the ticket to success in the job market. Especially when, statistically, 80% of employers don't give a crap about whatever "power font" you choose. Most of the time, the only thing that sees your font is the trash can.

My wife works at a law firm that recently posted a job opportunity for a second legal secretary. In one hour, she got 75 resumes. By the end of the day, she had a stack of resumes. Let me ask you this question:

Pretend you are her, and you've just read 50 resumes that have the same business jargon/nonsense. And the 51st has this sentence:

Objective: I am a self-starter who desires a rewarding position with a well-established firm that will give me opportunities to advance and demonstrate my experience.

Would this crap, over and over again, start to make you laugh? Would you be able to take this "self-starter" seriously? That's the problem with relying on resumes. A good resume on the top of the stack is effective; a good resume in the middle of the stack is funny, and a good resume on the bottom of the stack is annoying.

So how do you get your resume to the top of the stack? Someone has to put it there.

Now here's a fun statistic: zero. That's the percentage of people who wrote or called my wife personally, asking for a minute of her time to meet and talk about the job. And the funny thing is, her boss asked her if any of the resumes made a special impression.

Your name on paper is a word. But, when associated with your face and personality, your name becomes an powerful impression.

This post is getting long, so I will cut out for the night. But this should get you started on the right path. I have a system I will write down in future posts for you to help build, manage, and sustain relationships. Your success after college will be determined more by what you do after school than what you do in school. If you're the person that comes home and turns on the TV with a box of Lucky Charms until you fall asleep, then have fun playing the resume game. Just don't use the phrase "self-starter." It will be a lie.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you what the path to the "X" is.

You can be whatever you want to be. You just need to know the right people.