Again, Fate, I must shake my little fist at you and extemporize on your recent ill-usage of me. Jerkface. Why, Fate, why? Acceptance is a very important level, one that we all reach- I believed, until very lately, that I had settled into mine. Had a good idea of where I was moving next year, and so on... and then my thesis advisor tells me that it may be GOOD that I have not heard from Hahvaard or Columbia yet. That, perhaps, if they were planning on rejecting me, they would've done so already. And now, the all-too-early settled battle with the mailbox continues. He is the cliche scary movie monster who refuses to die, despite the hapless protagonist's repeated barrage of sharp objects, bullets, mythic curses from unknown times or different planets, and heroic stock phrases like, "you...MONSTER! :::pant::: DIE!!!" I don't know what to think any more. I haven't been getting mail. Is that good? Bad? Are they putting together my financial aid package, or are they planning some amusing rejection letter? Like, the letter is politely worded, but if you play it backwards while watching The Wizard of Oz, all you hear is "You? At an Ivy League? As if! As if! As if! As if!" :::sigh::: And, in general...I'm tired of the namby-pamby stuff. Follow through- or...geez, just don't string me along. It's not that I'm too old for that, but it's not like I won't get that old with time. Just...gah. Watch it, Fate. I'm getting frustrated with you. (All those years spent growing up Catholic...you think I'd have an in with The Lord....) All in all, though...it could be worse. 22 is just an age I've yet to figure out. And until I do, just please reserve some pity for my poor mailbox. It knows not what it does.

I mean, what grad school could possibly say no to this? In this blog alone there's been some apostrophizing, a metaphor or two, at least one Biblical allusion...and, to boot, I have found it not at all unpleasant to write (litotes.)