You invited to my Royal Weddin'

Many of us are very excited about the upcoming Royal Wedding between Prince William and the Catherine that is not me. Some of us might even wake up as early as 4am est this Friday to watch the thing. I know I will try to--my vision might be obstructed by tear-soaked tissues, but whatever, I am totally over him, like, totally, I don't care anymore, just watch me throw away all of the pictures of him that I had clipped from Time magazine (my parents only allowed me to subscribe to Time and Newsweek). While many have been anticipating this ceremony since the engagement was announced--some time after my brilliant idea for a taxidermy workshop--I have been waiting since I was fourteen. However, running completely counter to how I had envisioned this wedding so long ago, I am not the bride! What the fuck?! At the sweet, deranged age of fourteen, I really thought I was going to marry Prince William one day, or at least hook up with him, you know? I knew there were going to be obstacles because of the distance and the age difference... I was fourteen and he was, like, eighteen. I consulted my French/SAT tutor about my situation and he said that it was not impossible for me to date Prince William. With that glimmer of hope, I started planning my future with Prince William. I decided that I would have to meet him first so he could fall in love with me at first sight... Looking back... was he really going to fall in love with this?

No, this business took time to love. My love for Prince William blinded me of what I looked like...a dorky swamp monster that almost failed fifth grade because she made a pop-up book instead of writing an essay on John James Audubon. So, I continued on with my wedding plans. I decided I would have my parents take me to the UK for a family vacation. Once there, I was going to get all dressed up and get hit by Prince William's car--not badly hit, just enough to knock me unconscious. I logically reasoned that the fear of press coverage would force him to take me back to the castle, instead of a hospital. There, he would wait until I woke up to sign a confidentiality agreement. While waiting, he would fall in love with me. I figured, after waking up, he and I would have a meaningful conversation, a type of conversation that would make him think, "wow, she is really cool. I want to be her boyfriend and kiss her with my eyes closed and my hands on her waist like a slow dance."
Had he asked me to marry him for realz, I would have thrown a baller wedding. But hey, dreams can come true... which is why:

YOU INVITED TO MY ROYAL WEDDIN'!!!
My bridesmaids are: Jon Hamm, Anderson Cooper, and the guy from all those Mentalist posters. The wedding in my parents' backyard will be followed by a reception of bagel bites, Zing crunchy snacks, dosas, and cheese. Hope you can make it!
If you can't make it to my royal wedding, then please come to the taxidermy workshop on May 28 at 10am. Admission is $375.

I don't want to end up working at Duane Reade and admitting to my mother that she was right about how I should have gone into pharmaceuticals , or married a doctor with a nice Mercedes, or business man with a fuckin' private jet like Bill Gates

I am applying to grad schools this winter, as I have written about and alluded to a billion times.
Recently, I lost the taxidermy workshop I was organizing, I was rejected from the Seattle art gallery because the hipsters think my works are priced too high (I say, not high enough!), I stopped going to ballet, my nose is peeling all the time, and I am slightly behind in my research paper... Well, at least I have not been officially rejected from the smaller publishers... my agent tells me it should take awhile before we hear back from the smaller guys... And, I have my health, which is great--except I have developed a fear of eating hard-candy alone (I could choke and die with no one around to try to save me or listen to my last words, "arg, argh, always check the stove before you leave the house, arg, arg!").

Things feel like garbage even though I know these things are not THAT bad--and in fact, compared to other people's situations, my life is baller.
Very much a part of my quarter-life crisis, (1) I am finally realizing that one day I am going to die... and while there was a time in which death felt eons away, I have already gone through a quarter of my life--and that is generously assuming that I am going to live up to 96, which we know is not going to happen because of my diet of corn syrup and wine--it's probably going to be diabetes or liver failure around 65, right before retirement (2) I don't want to be mediocre, but I am realizing that a lot of people are mediocre. I am not going to be a Beyonce or an Ellen or an Oprah or a Boyle.
After all of my reality checks, I just want to go to graduate school, get my Ph.D. in sociology, work as a researcher/professor at a second tier university, publish some of my fiction, and skin road kill on my spare time.
This is where I am today:

I don't want to end up managing a flippin' Duane Reade.

I thought I was going to tell a cute story and specify all the things I hate about Duane Reade, but I spent too much effort on the picture above, so I'm just going to go make more popcorn and end this post.
The main point is, I want to get into grad school and if I do not get into a school this year I am going to barf.