I started my MFA in Creative Writing today, because I clearly hate myself.
It seemed like a good idea when I applied. In fact, it still seems like a great idea, for someone with a different life. Have you noticed, as I have, the rate at which these blog posts have dropped off, at a rate that coincides with the number of forks Charlie has thrown at my eye? Have you noticed, as I have, that I’ve stopped showering on the weekends because I can’t figure out where to schedule it? Have you, like me, been having recurrent stress dreams about my job, wherein everyone in my department has to have programming meetings on a tropical isle while a hurricane comes in and also my parents want to talk about feelings and I don’t know where Charlie is and I forgot to wear pants and am trying to maintain a professional demeanor while acting like this strategically placed beach towel is totally what I meant to wear today and what do you mean I’m in this musical number I haven’t even read the script yet?
If you answered “yes” to any of the above questions, you might have been able to tell me that graduate school is a fool’s errand. In fact, many of you have told me this very thing, but I’ve long thought that having a master’s degree is the only sure-fire way to temper my self-loathing.
In one year’s time, I will officially be Good Enough.
(Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!)
Wish me luck and I’ll keep you posted.
Meanwhile, Charlie plots my demise. Like he even needs to put any effort into it.