Thanksgiving 2010

Yesterday was a great Thanksgiving. We had plenty of friends over and all the food collaborations were delicious. However, before the festivities Josh got stuck in our elevator while trying to fetch the laundry. Our building supervisor had to bring in elevator specialists to pry open the door and free Josh. It was a hectic time. I kept Josh company by yelling at our broken elevator door like a crazy person. Later, I got bored, realized there was nothing I could do, and went back into the apartment to talk to my sister on the phone. She is doing well.

In the days leading up to our Thanksgiving dinner I obsessed over scented candles. I have been wanting a scented candle for about two months now. A lot of thought went into what kind of scent I could live with. There was also a fear that the cats might play with candle fire and then catch on fire and then die.

I had the idea that our apartment had to smell like holiday and not crazy mystery before the guests arrived. The fear of cat fire was still in the back of my mind, but with some reasoning my concerns were at ease. <Cats should know not to play with fire... right? But then again, it is not like they invented fire, so would they know? How natural is fire in nature? Well, pretty natural, I guess, considering my house almost burned down in the fire of 2002. 2003? No, 2002. 2002 because that fire happened the same year that the kid whose house burned down started wearing a t-shirt that read: 'Jesus is my Homie', so yes, 2002. Should our cats deserve to live if they do not know how to interact with fire? Whatever, this house needs to smell like holiday magic.> The night before Thanksgiving I made Josh and Kyle come with me to Duane Reade (I hate you, Duane Reade). It was a last minute desperate attempt to make the apartment smell magical. I had been thinking too much about candles and not actually shopping for candles--inevitably leading to a pathetic attempt at 10pm to improvise magic from the crap bomb that is Duane Reade. I bought something that purported a permeating apple cinnamon scent. Thanksgiving morning I lit the candle. Four hours later I got sick from the smell and had to open the window, but I left the candle burning because I wanted our guests to feel like it is holiday... With the window open the smell dissipated. Candles suck. Duane Reade sucks. Luckily, no cat fires.

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.

This Research Paper is Killing Me

I have been laboring over this research paper for days now and am going out-of-my-mind-bonkers. However, while real work has not been accomplished, I have been getting some business done online. I have made like fifty new facebook friends, read the newspaper (like the real newspaper, not just the most circulated articles), and quietly cried in my little work corner while watching that Susan Boyle sing "I dreamed a dream".

I think I will go follow up on that baby in Cambodia who smokes cigarettes now...

In case people are taking the poll without knowing what a Quagga is...

Squirrels hate you

Over the past few weeks I have been co-organizing a taxidermy workshop that was intended to be held at the end of this month. Because of a minor financial shortage brought on to us by a church that wants to charge us $150 an hour for the use of its recreation room for skinning and stuffing... we are now without an affordable workshop (why a church? well the taxidermy workshop is full of bears right now because hunting season just started). In addition, it is hunting season, so our taxidermist is struggling with scheduling... ARGH MY LIFE! Somewhere in Jersey there is a freezer with nine dead frozen squirrels waiting for me.

I hate you, Mission Statement!

The GRE victory high is over...
I am now writing my mission statement. Writing the mission statement makes me feel inadequate. It feels like this:

SUCK IT, GRE, SUCK IT!

This was me and the GREs last fall when I did not study and thought that I could just waltz in and ace the mofo... which is bonkers because by looking at my school records and history of anxiety you will see that I do horribly on in-class and standardized exams. How the hell I made it this far is beyond me.

Okay... so this year I wised up and actually prepared for this stinkin' test because I really want to get into a PhD program--you know what people with Sociology Masters do? Duane Reade. You probably get to manage a fuckin' Duane Reade, congratulations smart-ass, you were some how better off with just a BA because when you had just a BA they made you queen of autism back in 2007 (I was a behavioral therapist before all this). Whatever. Let us get to the good part. I did not get a perfect score. My adviser told me that it was acceptable--"could be better" but acceptable. However... while I maybe could have done better, it was a victory! For the first time I did an acceptable job on a standardized exam... Yes, I took three calm pills before going in, but I don't think they work because I broke down while trying to analyze a pie chart--why do we care about the retail price of mattresses?! Luckily, I snapped out of it... and by the end of the exam it felt like this:

 

 

There is a lesson to be learned in today's post: L-Theanine does not work.