back in the habit (you know, like whoopi goldberg pretending she's a nun, AGAIN)

so far, on day 2 of graduate school: semester 2! i already have more homework, for next week, then i had all last semester. and i still have 3 more classes to go to. in my raymond carver class today (a graduate level english class with less than 20 people, already warming the cold recesses of my heart) a kid who was in my fiction class told me he was only signed up for 6 units so he needed 1 more class to receive his financial aid. 9 credits is apparently pretty standard. i wonder if i am doing some sort of kamikaze maneuver by registering for 15. though i don’t really care. after finding out in my play writing workshop that we would be writing a 10 minute play every week, i reduced my netflix subscription to 2 movies instead of 3. i’m excited about all this. excited, you know, in that sort of terrified way. like, sure a 10 minute play every week, no problem. except that i have actually never written a play before (unless you count improvised tajar tales at girl scout camp) and i’m not even sure how to format one. but this is going to be good for me. i mean it. really tough, really character building, nothing like grade school: semester one: the community college of grad schools. no semester 2! has an exclamation mark and it’s sub sub title is “i can’t talk now because i have a book to read, a book to make and a play to write.” WHO CARES IF I DON’T HAVE FRIENDS?

but don’t think my attitude has completely morphed into smiley rosy butterfly face or anything (what am i writing? are you still reading this? is it nonsense to you too?) because today as my carver professor spent 45 minutes talking about what great things he has done not only for american literature but for radio and the world “by way of introduction,” i remembered that i sort of never want to be involved in academia ever ever ever. i mean, maybe i will but honestly i would rather teach middle schoolers and listen to my colleagues talk about the newest thomas kincaid collectible than teach college and have to hear my colleagues congratulate themselves on their fabulously unimportant accomplishments in their tiny elitist bubble of “post world war 2 american literature” or “late 18th century french poetry” or “yes in fact i have lost the ability to see the world past my thesis which i wrote 30 years ago.”

thomas kincaid does suck pretty hard though.

anyway, i felt like i was coherent on the bart ride home but after writing all of this i realize i am not. maybe i am preoccupied thinking about what i am going to write a 10 minute play about and then what i am going to write a story about and then when am i going to do some laundry.

is there a new grey’s anatomy on tonight? i think there is. we all better watch to see if they murder doctor burke for using the word “faggot” and NOT in a nice way.

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