Excited, I boldly launched myself into my new task. I carefully drew up a plan with several phases and carefully-laid objectives. Unfortunately, I tore it up to use as a bookmark for my extracurricular reading: The Best of the Swimsuit Supermodels.

Nonetheless, I carried on with my plan. First, I sent President Wright an electronic mail message which was very kind and polite. I even spelled everything right (I got someone to help me with that part). That night, however, I was frustrated by the lack of response. Didn't he care about our interview? Did it mean nothing to him? Hurt, I didn't know what to do. Unfortunately, alcohol, as usual, brought out my worst instincts.

A bottle of Olde English helped to convince me that it would be a good idea to contact the man behind the man. Or, in this case, the woman behind the man: Administrative Assistant Madeleine “Tina” Overman.

I attempted to curry favor with Ms. Overman by explaining the various reasons why President Wright should consent to be interviewed by me. The capper: I wrote, “I promise that I won't ask him any embarrassing questions like about his love life or anything (I bet he gets more play that I do, anyway).” Sad but true.

I woke up the next morning and realized that I had overstepped the bounds of my relationship with Ms. Overman. Luckily, I discovered that she was on vacation for the next week. I had some time to work with before my idiocy was fully realized by the Office of the President. I felt bad.

But I pushed my feelings aside. I was working on something bigger than I was. My feelings would have to wait.

A few days went by and I started to feel a little used. Why wasn't President Wright blitzing me back? Typical male. Was it something I said? Was it something I didn't say? I felt confused. I decided to attack the problem head on. If he wasn't going to blitz me back, I wanted to know why. I wasn't a good enough interviewer?

It hurt because while I was desperate to interview him, I knew that, at the same time, he was probably granting interviews to The Boston Globe or The Daily Dartmouth. True, I'm not the best reporter, but I don't deserve to be cast aside like that.

Well, I thought, President Wright seems like a good guy. Maybe he just hasn't checked his Blitzmail in the past two weeks. So, I tried to crack onto his Blitz account. I tried every password I could think of: Susan, Prez, President, Jim, Jimmy, Wutang. None of them worked.

Then I realized: great minds think alike. I decided, in desperation, to try my Blitzmail password: “password.” Hmmm...That didn't seem to work either. Obviously, I was dealing with a superior intelligence. I decided to turn to the skill I know best: stalking.

On July 13th, I staked out Wright's parking spot. The administration parking lot was surprisingly empty. James Freedman had a parking spot that was starting to gather cobwebs and President Wright didn't have his green Jeep Grand Cherokee parked there today. Well, maybe he would show up. But I didn't want to alarm him, so I acted very conspicuous.

I knew from past experience that stalking resulted in one of two things: a) another restraining order or b) a physical response. I remembered that President Wright was in the Marines and that, by virtue of not being comatose, could probably kick my ass.

I got a Diet Doctor Pepper and some Chex Mix brand sunglasses and settled in on a nearby bench. I lasted about 20 minutes and then packed it in. Wright wasn't going to show. I was sure of it. Maybe he was avoiding me.

I didn't want to blitz him again because that would just seem too needy. I decided to play along with his little game. If you won't blitz me, I won't blitz you. I was sure he would blitz me, though. Why wouldn't he?

I decided that I wouldn't play hard to get like he was. Nothing was to be achieved by that. My friends told me that I was being too needy and that I just needed some closure. I couldn't let myself get strung along by my interviewees like this.

I was a strong, independent person and I didn't need to do interviews to feel good about myself. If need be, I would just practice by interviewing myself.

I decided to send Wright one final blitz. I told him plainly how I felt. I told him that I wished he had had the courtesy to respond to my earlier blitz, but I understand why he did not.

I told him that I didn't need for him to respond. I just needed some closure. I told him that I needed to start treating myself better before I could expect anyone else to treat me well.

So I failed to get the interview. But I always like to take a lesson out of every experience I go through. Thanks to President Wright, I learned about life and about living with the person most important in my life: myself—with or without an interview.

Thank you, James Wright.