Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Oh god, just kill me.
What . . . am I doing with my life?
Sweet Christ, what is grad school for? Do I really want to end up like some of these sad fumbling professors who cannot maintain conversations because interpersonal relations make them shiver like chihuahuas?
When I was an awkward, adolescent CowardlyAcademe, with a nose that was one-third my body weight and a face that could break cameras, mocked by my peers in middle school, my mother told me that the best revenge was living well. Well, shit. Many of my friends from high school are married, and/or have kids, and even have jobs where they make more than $9,000 a year. Yes, that's right. I fucking fantasize about living above the poverty line. Thank you, grad school. Thank you so damn much. Not only have you allowed me to remain so emotionally stunted that I am unable to achieve normal life goals, your version of socialization has let me stay at an emotional level where I still think it's important that bullies from my youth know I am more awesome than they are.
Am I even really that good at academia? Shit, I haven't published a damn thing yet, and no one's ever appeared to care about anything I've written and given at a conference. Ever. One guy once asked if I had brought my jug of water all the way across the country with me.
I'm going to go down to the river and throw myself in. Except that that will make me think about every literary figure who has ever shown up in a river, from the Lady of Shalott to Virginia Woolf, and that makes me a giant lit fag.
Oh, and now I've jumped through almost all your stupid little hoops, made it through the winnowing of my class's ranks, and now, if I'm good, I just might get to write chapters of a thesis until I die? No fucking thank you. I think I've had it. I've learned my lesson. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on you, fool me for twenty years' worth of schooling, I would rather set a hedgehog on fire and shove it -
Wait, what? A giant string of back-to-school parties? Will there be beer? There will be beer? Can I get drunk and fondle strangers? I can?
Maturity is for chumps. I gotta go grab some chips so I have something in my stomach before I hit the kegger.
Sweet Christ, what is grad school for? Do I really want to end up like some of these sad fumbling professors who cannot maintain conversations because interpersonal relations make them shiver like chihuahuas?
When I was an awkward, adolescent CowardlyAcademe, with a nose that was one-third my body weight and a face that could break cameras, mocked by my peers in middle school, my mother told me that the best revenge was living well. Well, shit. Many of my friends from high school are married, and/or have kids, and even have jobs where they make more than $9,000 a year. Yes, that's right. I fucking fantasize about living above the poverty line. Thank you, grad school. Thank you so damn much. Not only have you allowed me to remain so emotionally stunted that I am unable to achieve normal life goals, your version of socialization has let me stay at an emotional level where I still think it's important that bullies from my youth know I am more awesome than they are.
Am I even really that good at academia? Shit, I haven't published a damn thing yet, and no one's ever appeared to care about anything I've written and given at a conference. Ever. One guy once asked if I had brought my jug of water all the way across the country with me.
I'm going to go down to the river and throw myself in. Except that that will make me think about every literary figure who has ever shown up in a river, from the Lady of Shalott to Virginia Woolf, and that makes me a giant lit fag.
Oh, and now I've jumped through almost all your stupid little hoops, made it through the winnowing of my class's ranks, and now, if I'm good, I just might get to write chapters of a thesis until I die? No fucking thank you. I think I've had it. I've learned my lesson. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on you, fool me for twenty years' worth of schooling, I would rather set a hedgehog on fire and shove it -
Wait, what? A giant string of back-to-school parties? Will there be beer? There will be beer? Can I get drunk and fondle strangers? I can?
Maturity is for chumps. I gotta go grab some chips so I have something in my stomach before I hit the kegger.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
HA HA HA! KNEEL BEFORE ME, MORTALS!
From my email inbox today:
I would like to now encourage the universe at large to SUCK IT.
Prelims, it turns out, aren't really all that bad. I pretty much got my worst-case scenario question:
"Hey, CowardlyAcademe, remember that one essay by that one guy?"
"Well, I - wait. That obscure one? Where he talks about - well, I remember seeing this essay, there was something about dialogue in it, but if - um. No. No, I do not."
"Great, well, talk about how it relates to four different novels that span the course of the twentieth century."
". . . sure."
Apparently, the sort of fearlessness associated with weary resignation leads to AMAZING MAGICKAL POWERS OF BULLSHIT ZOMG.
Dear CowardlyAcademe,
Your prelim exam committee contacted me this morning regarding your
exam results, and I am very pleased to inform you that you have been given
the mark of PASS. You may celebrate this milestone without reservation.
Please let me extend my heartfelt congratulations.
Departmental Secretary
I would like to now encourage the universe at large to SUCK IT.
Prelims, it turns out, aren't really all that bad. I pretty much got my worst-case scenario question:
"Hey, CowardlyAcademe, remember that one essay by that one guy?"
"Well, I - wait. That obscure one? Where he talks about - well, I remember seeing this essay, there was something about dialogue in it, but if - um. No. No, I do not."
"Great, well, talk about how it relates to four different novels that span the course of the twentieth century."
". . . sure."
Apparently, the sort of fearlessness associated with weary resignation leads to AMAZING MAGICKAL POWERS OF BULLSHIT ZOMG.
