Wednesday, January 7, 2009


This post is going to be a little less lighthearted than the previous one, simply for the fact that I'm in a mood. Attribute this to my Time of Monthly Official Womanhood if you will, but I really want to talk to someone about it and the boyfriend is not awake, nor do I feel like disturbing him with my complaining about nothing, so here you are, lovely inviting clean blank computer screen. I know you well.

Anyway, today was just one of those days. I am waiting for one last professor to submit his letter of recommendation so I can finally get my applications in the mail for law school, and I've emailed him several times over the past few weeks and gotten no response. I wouldn't normally worry so much about something so seemingly trivial, but no law school will accept less than two letters of recommendation (at least the ones that I want to go to) and I currently have one. I also asked him in early October if he would write it, and he agreed. So I am freaking out, natch. In a moment of sheer desperation I e-mailed his wife (also, a professor of mine and coincidentally, my adviser) to ask her if she could remind him. She said she would, but I am still fretting like a fretting thing. Law school is my only option, because honestly, what in god's name am I going to do with a history degree? Be a historian? Ha ha and ha. In another moment of sheer desperation, I e-mailed another history professor to ask if it were any way possible for him to write me a letter of recommendation and be done with it by the end of January. I feel terrible springing this on him, he is a kindly old man-sort of professor but I am honestly at the end of my rope.

I use the word "honestly" an awful lot. I should try to remedy this. (end digression here).

So today has been shitty. I feel like a shaky bundle of nerves ready to burst into tears at the latest ASPCA commercial featuring Sarah McLachlan (I cry at this commercial regardless of my mood; I could be the world's happiest sonofabitch and then see this slideshow of sad, emaciated animals and immediately tear up). I am listening to sad-voiced Joshua Radin and generally being a teenage girl about this whole situation. It is important to note that I am not a teenage girl, I am a woman in her twenties (okay, I'm twenty-one) who should be capable of handling stuff. I'm not. 

Also, my hands look like hamburger meat. I should explain. My kitten Winston hates to be held, but he is oh-so-cuddly and soft and I just want to snuggle him all day. He does not appreciate this and pushes away from me with his sharp kitten claws. Ergo, my hands are covered in scabs. When I'm stressed, I pick. I'm fairly sure there's a disorder by this name. I pick until my hands are raw and it's absolutely disgusting. Why am I sharing this? Because no one I know knows that I have this blog. Ach, there's that word again. I thought I banished that in the first post. 

Anyway, I guess that's enough emotion-filled rambling for one post. I plan on popping a few tylenol pm and taking to my bed. Remember when people used to take to their bed? Why that is no longer acceptable, I'm really not sure. Sometimes you really just need to shut out the world.

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