Whatever happened to the 24 hour virus? IT'S BEEN SUPERSIZED!
So I'm still sick, in case you couldn't tell by my stupid, marketing-ploy-esque title. I'm all queasy and gross and just kind of generally unwell. It's not that I'm really that sick all of the time. In fact, this is like the Chinese Water Tortures of Stomach Viruses. It's just a little at a time, until you can't take it anymore and eat a damn brownie and then you're doing the Pepto Bismol dance and sticking your head in a toilet. Wretched, really.
Anyway, more interesting than my bathroom habits of late, is the fact that my fiancee is a fricking genius, at least according to the graduate programs of several universities. Last night Columbia calls him and up and offers $19,000 a year and full tuition and all of this other crazy stuff, just to come there and read and do that cute nod that he does when he has something interesting to say and wants someone to shut up so he can say it. And then Berkeley emails and says that they are paying for us to come out there and give it a look-see. So we get free money and free trips. Or rather, he gets free money and free trips, and I mooch. And then next year, I will be the one working the stupid office job with some idiot named Flo for a boss who smells like canned soup and wear high-waisted, pleated pants while he soaks up the sun of academia and reads Tolstoy for money. Bastard. No, I take that back. He's not a bastard. In fact, he's wonderful, and perfect (stares at glittering ring), and I couldn't give him up if I wanted to. It's just that I am starting to see that for the next four or six or eight or fifty years, I am going to be the girl at the cocktail parties who is constantly asked "And what are you studying?" and I'm going to sigh deeply, take a drink of gin, and say, "The human condition," which, if you think about it, is just pretentious enough to work. I don't know. I need to write, and write fast, so I won't be this anti-feminist beast who follows her husband around and works dead end jobs so he can talk about deconstruction and PoCo and PoMo and such for fun. Under pressure.
And as I am writing this, the University of Pittsburgh calls and asks to speak to "Joseph" in this heavy accent because they have something to offer him. Dear God. It's like living with a slightly hairier Brad Pitt.
My geology matter has still not been totally worked out, so I have that hanging over my head. That and the fact that I haven't done my reading for any class in such a long time. It's so sad. I have been destroyed, utterly and totally, by senioritis and stomach bug. All that remains is a conflicted shell of the girl I once was, a girl who just wants to sleep and write and eat a meal without seeing it in a half-digested state. Sigh.
Last night I dreamed that I was in an all-girl punk band. I sang. Scary.
Well, I should go. I have TV to watch, and truths to ponder. And Matt will be calling any time now, saying "Guess what?!?" and I will have to smile and look at the future in glowing Technicolor as he details just what they are giving him and how much and whose lips he is prying off of his ass for the moment. The Life and Trials of Those with Splendid Futures. Sigh.
Anyway, more interesting than my bathroom habits of late, is the fact that my fiancee is a fricking genius, at least according to the graduate programs of several universities. Last night Columbia calls him and up and offers $19,000 a year and full tuition and all of this other crazy stuff, just to come there and read and do that cute nod that he does when he has something interesting to say and wants someone to shut up so he can say it. And then Berkeley emails and says that they are paying for us to come out there and give it a look-see. So we get free money and free trips. Or rather, he gets free money and free trips, and I mooch. And then next year, I will be the one working the stupid office job with some idiot named Flo for a boss who smells like canned soup and wear high-waisted, pleated pants while he soaks up the sun of academia and reads Tolstoy for money. Bastard. No, I take that back. He's not a bastard. In fact, he's wonderful, and perfect (stares at glittering ring), and I couldn't give him up if I wanted to. It's just that I am starting to see that for the next four or six or eight or fifty years, I am going to be the girl at the cocktail parties who is constantly asked "And what are you studying?" and I'm going to sigh deeply, take a drink of gin, and say, "The human condition," which, if you think about it, is just pretentious enough to work. I don't know. I need to write, and write fast, so I won't be this anti-feminist beast who follows her husband around and works dead end jobs so he can talk about deconstruction and PoCo and PoMo and such for fun. Under pressure.
And as I am writing this, the University of Pittsburgh calls and asks to speak to "Joseph" in this heavy accent because they have something to offer him. Dear God. It's like living with a slightly hairier Brad Pitt.
My geology matter has still not been totally worked out, so I have that hanging over my head. That and the fact that I haven't done my reading for any class in such a long time. It's so sad. I have been destroyed, utterly and totally, by senioritis and stomach bug. All that remains is a conflicted shell of the girl I once was, a girl who just wants to sleep and write and eat a meal without seeing it in a half-digested state. Sigh.
Last night I dreamed that I was in an all-girl punk band. I sang. Scary.
Well, I should go. I have TV to watch, and truths to ponder. And Matt will be calling any time now, saying "Guess what?!?" and I will have to smile and look at the future in glowing Technicolor as he details just what they are giving him and how much and whose lips he is prying off of his ass for the moment. The Life and Trials of Those with Splendid Futures. Sigh.
posted by Southern Belle at 10:56 AM
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