Yes, I have checked my e-mail about twenty times today to see if Dr. S*r* K*mbllll, instructor of the much-coveted lexicography course being offered by the U of Tejas Dept. of English, had responded to my polite and grammatically-flawless note requesting auditing privileges in said class. Unfortunately, she has not, and so I patiently sit by my computer waiting for my answer. I'm dead fucking serious about this, folks, to the point where if there wasn't a big husband and a headed-for-supreme-awesomeness musical improv troupe that were more important than dropping my shit and heading back to the foothills of the Berkshire Range so that I could earn $28K a year writing dictionary entries, I'd be loading up the Corolla and hitting I-35 with a trunkful of Central Market tortillas for my Massachusetts freezer. God, the tortillas there are SO UNACCEPTABLE.
So rather than disrupt my life and my husband's life, I will take this class and get this bug out of my system. And if at the end of this, the itch is scratched, then hooray. Maybe there is a future for me in librarianship. If not, then, I will obtain clearance for my tortilla freezer or something. I'll already have to miss a whole month of the class for Vt. Stud Center.
I was made very happy tonight when Asaf and Dr. Dre told me that they thought my perfect job would be writing a column. I must figure out a way to make that happen. Perhaps a maudit 2.0 revamp is in order. The Ladycollege Alumnee Mag rejected the piece I wrote about Colin, which makes me sad, but what am I gonna do? Stock up a freezer with tortillas? Write a novel? Wait by the computer like an unsophisticated women's college alum with a crush or something? I've already done that shit, and let me tell you, nothing challenges dignity like tortilla hoarding.