barackobama:
“I’m President Barack Obama. And I too want to slow-jam the news.”
Breaking up 1920’s week for this very important message. Presidential mic drop.
Med school?
Why did everyone I know apply to medical school? It’s weird. Out of nowhere, I suddenly feel so much less accomplished than 97% of my friends and friends-of-friends and acquaintances, who all applied to med school. Even The Boy From Yale* came to stay at our apartment so he could go to his Western med school interview this morning. I am not exaggerating: we hosted a party here last night, and I was one of three people who hadn’t applied to med school.**
*The Boy From Yale is a good story. He’s studying biology at Yale, he rows, is super cute and tall and nice and stuff, and yet…he had never touched a vagina until my roommate (aka The Virgin Slayer) came along. I don’t understand.
**The other two weren’t liberal arts slackers either, one was in engineering and the other applied to veterinary school.
And a single tumbleweed blew through the empty hallways of the Social Science Centre…
Got into the grad program I wanted. This is cause for…celebration? Part of me is happy, because I got exactly what I asked for. The other (majority?) part of me is a little sad. I had planned on not getting in, on taking a year off, on traveling and living at home and relaxing for a year. Now I have to be an adult and actually start a career and shit.
Is this what I need?
Drunk is the only possible way I will be able to write this essay on Thomas Szasz’s The Myth of Mental Illness without losing my shit. It’s worth 50% of my final grade, and I have so many mixed feelings about it. Alcohol will clear my head, right?
The funniest thing I have ever included on a Works Cited page:
Turley, Richard Marggraf. “’Strange longings’: Keats and feet.” Studies in Romanticism 41.1 (2002): 89-106. Web. 29 Nov. 2011.
Keats. And. Feet. Dying right now. Silently dying at a library appropriate volume.
#universitystudentproblems
I have my annual Back to School Cold still, and today I pretty much sneezed directly onto the cute guy who sits in front of me in one of my classes. Ugh, two weeks of cute-but-casual small talk down the drain.
#universitystudentproblems
I cannot believe Rosh Hashanah and Homecoming are on the same weekend…dramatically cuts down on my daytime drinking lady posse, tbh.
Write me at the Hotel Quintana, Pamplona, Spain. Or don’t you like to write letters? I do because it’s such a swell way to keep from working and yet feel you’ve done something.
Hemingway, from a letter he sent to Fitzgerald (or me, in a blog post about how much more I use tumblr when I have yet another last minute essay to write…)
An email I just received from a professor:
“Get a good night’s sleep (hmmm — methinks you should be a-bed already). Eat well tomorrow. Come to the exam refreshed. (I apparently think I’m your Mom!)”
I have 14 hours to read 7 plays. (Edited to include: oh, and maybe sleep?)
I’d like to thank a constant combination of Buckley’s (taken in shots every hour), non-drowsy decongestants (the kind they make meth out of!), one million tablets of vitamin C, and the spicyest ramen noodles available at my local Asian market for helping me survive this weekend. Nothing says “you should have been prepared weeks ago” like struggling to get through the last week of class, 3 more papers, and 5 exams with a killer cold.
