Jun 2, 2005

What's the prognosis, Doc?

Yesterday I got that award for my Russian history essay at a very nice little ceremony after which I met the person who could potentially - strike that - will be my thesis supervisor. He was really enthusiastic about my research. This is more excellent than I know how to 'splain.

After this event thingy I had a most enjoyable ride off the mountain with four profs from the History department. We were the loud obnoxious kids at the back of the bus, laughing loudly at our own jokes.

I felt really good on my walk home. It was really fantastic to have my work recognized. It was wonderful to make that one critical contact in the department that I'll need if I'm to sell my idea for my masters thesis to the department. We ended our conversation with him saying, "Good! Great! Now what do we have to do to get you into our graduate program!"

I didn't have any work to do last night. Oh, I could have done more reading for my Religion course, and I suppose I could have started re-reading Hamlet. But instead I had a long visit with one of the old ladies downstairs, several cups of tea and cigarettes, a bubblebath, and I went to bed early with Disc 2 Season 6 of Sex and the City. I thought about making myself a martini, but then I would have had to go down four flights of stairs to the basement deep-freeze to get ice and it seemed like too much effort for too little reward.

But then, after my perfect day, every dream I had last night was one of those horrible ones where you show up for school and you didn't study for the test, or you get called up to do an impossible trig problem on the chalk-board and realize you forgot your pants. Well, I didn't dream about either of those scenarios, I'm just saying it was that kind of night. What I dreamed about - all night long! - were different versions of the same dream in which I got a phone call saying, "we're sorry, there's been a mistake. You don't qualify for the award you received. Would you please return the check at your earliest convenience."

In one of my dreams, there was a glass elevator, a trip to a department store to buy shoes which didn't fit me, a call about being disqualified for the essay prize, and a huge screaming fight with my imaginary boyfriend. At one point for some reason I had to scramble over logs to escape from a "bad person" of unknown etiology who for some reason completely inexplicable to the plot, showed up and wanted to kill me.

Oh yeah, and yesterday I also got an A minus on my Blake essay which I can only attribute to grade inflation.

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