Wednesday, March 30, 2011 so freakin' close!

It’s done.

The program has been alerted, my one potential lab has been alerted. I’m sure everyone in my cohort knows at this point, not that their knowing is at all important.

I’m leaving. Moving on. Going home. Blowing der popsicle stand.  And all that anyone can ask me is, “why?" and "what are you going to do?”

Well, for starters, I’m going to reintroduce my pasty white (black) flesh to sunlight through copious usage of shorts, skirts, sleeveless tops and sandals – something that is anathema in any reputable lab – and I only deal with labs of repute my friends. Next, I’m going to lay out by the pool and do and think about nothing. But, most importantly I’m not going to do this.  

I’ve decided to leave. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. It’s not like there’s some random person sitting outside on one of Purdue’s many corners handing out tickets to life. I’ll know what I’m doing when I get there.  The possibilities, much like the inherent stupidity of our government, are endless.

That being said – I feel like I’m 10 again. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Well, when does one officially “grow-up?” Only time will tell.

I could be a pastry chef and open a kick-ass sinfully decadent bakery.

I could go to law school and be a lawyer as sexy as Hank Moody's defense attorney.

I could go back to school and get a degree in English.

Or maybe one in Political Science (shudders – science).

Or maybe I’ll just kick back and relax for a bit, replenish the old pool of self confidence. Rediscover who I am.

This year has stripped me bare. Graduate school has a way of creeping in and eroding the very fiber of your being. It’s a silent killer. Aided only by the astounding ability of civilized people to pounce on their peers at their weakest moments.

I have got a month left here, and I can’t say that I’ll be terribly sorry to see the end of this journey or the end to explaining why I’m leaving. (Because I can. Because I want to. Just, because.)
Though, thanks to my mother and her brilliance, I can now fire back with “why are you staying?” I don’t think anyone has legitimately stopped to ask this question. Or, what’s more, if the answer is even worth it.

Friday, March 11, 2011

The Idiot's Guide to Flying

I’m REALLY starting to hate flying. 

The undressing in the security line. The unpacking of my painstakingly packed carry on materials. The looks that people give me when they see my socks. (What? They’re socks. They covered my feet. They did their job. Don’t judge me).

The fact that people *still* don’t understand the concept of putting their freakin purses on the floor in front of them to save room for the rest of the poor peons that couldn’t afford $600 to check their bags.
The jackass that *still* doesn’t know that you have to remove your shoes, keys, laptop, cell phone, jacket, kidney.

Or the one that doesn’t know that water is always considered a liquid – and 3 ounces did not magically morph into 16. Throw it away.

No, I don’t want to dissect your snot – so please don’t sneeze on me.

I do not want to feel your hot, emphysema laden breath on the back of my neck, so please don’t cough on me.

The only person I allow to be that close to me is my boyfriend, so please find your way out of my personal bubble.

I paid for 1 seat. You paid for 1 seat. Neither of us paid for an extra quarter or half of a seat. Please keep your arms, legs and various extremities inside the plane and your ONE seat at all times. This isn’t kindergarten – sharing is no longer important.

Though, some rules of kindergarten still apply – like washing one’s hands upon leaving the bathroom.

And, as an add-on to the rule above, don’t lick your finger with an exaggerated SLURP SLURP SLURP before turning every single page of a shared magazine. Especially one that you drench in your spit and put back in the seat pocket. C’mon people. Have a little care with what you put in your mouth. You have no idea what person wiped their ass, didn’t wash their hands and then did the same SLURP SLURP SLURP routine with that exact same magazine. Sheesh.

And please, for the love of God, pack some gum if you’re going to eat anything even remotely flavored with onions.

Maybe it’s just me, but unbuttoning your shirt and applying deodorant in the MIDDLE OF THE AIRPORT just seems wrong. Though, that could’ve been the onion smell. Maybe that guy should’ve, oh I dunno, ventured to the restroom and slapped a little soap on those pits before covering it up with Old Spice or whatever it is stinky men wear these days.

And last, but not least, if you don’t like the above rules – take a freakin’ car. 

And, yes, I realize this has nothing to do with grad school....directly. But, think about how much the average grad students flies. Conferences, training, visits to home or the "grad student exclusive" asylum. You'll want to print this out and share it with the airport masses. 

Until next time.