IT IS FINISHED…sorta
The application to the OTD program has been submitted—online, where they can’t see my handwriting—with an essay like a finely-honed hunting weapon (thanks to the ten people who helped me edit it).
The official transcripts and letters of evaluation have been posted and should arrive tomorrow or Friday.
The final three rounds of pre-reqs have been lined up, somewhat begrudgingly. I don’t like the idea of taking a 200-level writing course in how to write research papers when I essentially majored in writing research papers. Whatever. I’m in it to win it.
I won’t be able to relax every muscle in my body until March when they let me know if I’m accepted or not. Then, and only then, it will be either drowning my sorrows in donuts or celebrating my accomplishment over donuts.
A glass of wine. A cheese sandwich (cold, like I have time to grill). One grad school application.
Very little sleep tomorrow. Nearly there now!
If Morrissey knew what I was preparing for dinner right now, he’d be crying so hard he wouldn’t be able to throw his bouquet of flowers at me.
I guess the benefit of having an abysmal and disastrous Monday is a great Wednesday. And if it isn’t, if my great Wednesday is just a fluke, then the Universe should consider making this a hard rule. Kind of like “a mild summer means a harsh winter” here in Oregon (which is only a hard rule to old wives and the like), or at least make it a guideline.
Despite talking, quite literally, non-stop about the same incident from over a year go for 20 minutes, my client today was peaceful and easy to work with.
The shoes I ordered yesterday arrived today, they fit great AND I now have another moving box. Thanks, Zappos!
First hair cut in a year, see below. I told her I wanted big hair, and damned if she didn’t give it to me.
I just checked my grade on the last Chemistry exam and I screamed and rocketed out of my chair when I saw it. 100%!
I have enough leftover pizza for dinner tonight so I don’t have to cook.
Considering about half of our youth in treatment are on 4-day home visits for Thanksgiving, the on-call phone should be quiet as a mouse this weekend. I’ll miss the overtime, sort of.
I’m so blessed I need to lie down.
Is it a law that all hairstyle catalogs in every salon in every nook and cranny of this country have to be 13 years old?
1) AmHAIRica (this pun courtesy of Sean).
2) I’d be mad too if I were trapped in 2000.
3) Sad because WoW won’t be released for another three years.
Teenage Emily would have looked at me in starry eyed disbelief when I told her that she would fall in love with a musician. She would feel woozy, I’m sure, thinking about all the love songs he would write about her. This would be the best part, surely!
No, dear child. The best part is The List. You will walk up to the front table and say, “I’m with the band.” You will waltz into the venue like you built it yourself. You will never have to pay for another show again*.
If something makes an angsty musician happy, he will not have any songs to write about it. Can you think of a love song written by an angsty musician that didn’t make you cringe? That was devoid of any conflict?
* Except for the stupid Great Idea at Enchanted Forest. I still had to pay admission to the park.