I have suddenly developed a new habit, something i didn't think possible now that I am a fully developed human adult complete with jiggly ass and genuine need to pay bills on time...
Suddenly I have developed the need to narrate my every move from the stand point of onmiscient narrator, IN PUBLIC!
What is so shocking to me is not so much the narration, but the fact that I am now doing it aloud without realizing it! Typically I will approach the dining-hall milk-giving machine with the following thought in my head "angrily she approached the milk-giving machine, almost certain that the milk which would soon issue forth would be warm, coupled with the warmth of the newly washed bowl this would surely make a most unsatisfactory bowl of lucky charms, otherwise known as the fruit of the gods."
Now however, picture the above phrase not reeling eloquently through the wrinkly grey matter of your favorite genius's noggin, but instead issuing forth from chapped lips in a slightly maniacal voice. MADNESS(!!!).
How I figured it out that I was doing it aloud: As said thought came forth from the bowels of my soul and was lent a voice, another girl next to me giggled and made some sort of response to which I replied with a befuddled "Huh!?!" to which to replied by, "Oh, blah blah blah" which I didn't really catch as I was caught in the throws of realization that I, Krysta Betit, had said something aloud rather than kept it in my sizeable noggin. Again, MADNESS (!!!).
All this aside:
I had a dream last night that I played first base for the Red Sox but was a huge disapointment.
I also cannot wait 'til 2:30 of this afternoon...it is going to be a most fabulous day...methinks.
Dear girl named Vicki who goes to school with me who I do not know,
I love you too.
Miss Pirate Pants
PS: Miss Amy Beth says 'WHAT UP GURL!"
Dear everyone else,
Suck my back. I am doing applications for a while.
Try not to fucking miss me, hookers.
Such a surreal day.
Today I met with my favorite professor...a person I look up to ever so much who's teaching style and generally engaging manner have singly inspired me to go to graduate school in order to get a PhD and one day share a spot in the world in which she is so heavily saturated.
I asked her to write a recomendation for me, excitedly handing her the necessary envelopes and forms...
and she refused.
for very harsh and shockingly disapointing reasons she refused.
I did not forsee this happening...
then again I also did not expect this Bush Dynasty to go on either.
I have been wrong so many times today.
I can't even believe this is happening...
we are such a hateful, war-like people.
Lately I can't make myself do anything.
I blame the following...in the following order...
1. The Red Sox
Number 3 being the result of numbers 1 and 2.
Though I have nothing due imediately I still feel like a major slack ass for doing the minimal amount of work today. I have three papers to write, one to rewrite, plenty of books to read, two big hairy GRE exams to study for, and 8 PhD programs to apply to - rather than do these things I instead ate half a can of salsa with a spoon, sat around without underwear on while thinking about putting them on but never actually putting them on, compulsively checking my email, reading other people's idiotic away messages.
More grad school shit:
I have it narrowed down to these programs...
1. Boston College
4. UC Berkeley
5. Brandeis University
6. Rice University
7. UC Irvine
8. University of Michigan
...and maybe NYU.
The application process is really not that painful, it is my anal retentive nature that makes it worse than it has to be - for example: it is not normal to cry over mixing up the month and day in your date of birth - it is not acceptable to throw things when this shit happens.
But I do. Oh how I do.
In other news: I have once again fucked up. Argh.
My head is fuzzy and my mouth tastes like sand...
FUCK YEAH BOSOX!
That's all I've got right now.
Auto response from ashley kaila: Ms Pirate Pants: like woah i want a pickle.
Ms Pirate Pants: klike wiched bad.
ashley kaila: ummmm
ashley kaila: i don't know what to tell you
Ms Pirate Pants: no no.
Ms Pirate Pants: its tuesday its ok
ashley kaila: it's okay to want pickles on tuesday?
Ms Pirate Pants: yes.
Ms Pirate Pants: i think i just chipped my tooth on a cookie
ashley kaila: should have gone for the pickle
Ms Pirate Pants: i had onna thoe 2
Ms Pirate Pants: nerll.y just bit one and put it backeeew
ashley kaila: a pickle?
Ms Pirate Pants: cookie.
Ms Pirate Pants: what if i run outta coookie?
Ms Pirate Pants: that would wicked suck.
Ms Pirate Pants: am eating a cookie and n apple at the same time
Ms Pirate Pants: i wanna finish equal bvut am afraikd to run ouuta cookie.
I am applying to graduate school.
Nothing in this world is more painful or difficult to survive, save for maybe performing a root canal on yourself.
Anxieties I have had concerning my applications thus far:
1. My signature is just a big squiggly line with a star over it due to the fact that I am unschooled in the ways of cursive writing with elegance. What if I am rejected based on the fact that I can't sign my name like a normal human being? What if they see the Lisa Frank-esque star over the non-existant "i" in the squiggle that is supposed to represent last name and reject me based on the fact that I am squirrly and sentimental?
2. When tearing out the "Letter of Reccomendation" template I accidently tore the edges a bit, rendering them slightly ragged and sad looking. What if I am rejected based on my inability to tear along perferations?
3. My handwriting is rather round and youngish looking - what if it showcases my otherwise blaring ineptitude and constant "suck at life" factor? What if I am rejected based on the fact that my handwriting is like that of a ten year old girl missing several fingers?
More anxieties to come...am now going to go stand in the shower where I am forced to refrain from reading graduate applications as if they get wet then surely I will be rejected for being stupid enough to try and read them while immersed in water.
Last night there was a party
(in my pants!).
And by party I mean myself and two friends sat around watching the Red Sox get their asses handed to them and successfully drank about 15 dollars worth of cheap alcohol in abject sadness and torment. This morning I woke up unable to place myself into the spectrum of the last two hours before I allegedly passed out in all of my clothes leading me to believe that I was temporarily abducted by Asian tourists and forced to walk behind their various family members again and again so they could take pictures with authentic passerby-ers standing between their big blinking smiles and the monument du jour.
I had this thought yesterday and voiced it to friend School Marm to which she expressed marginal interest (and by marginal I mean she wrinkled her nose and gave me a funny look...as I recall)
Thought being: I wonder how many pictures in this world have me "passing by" in them. How many people out there on this planet have pictures of a blurred arm belonging to me, or pictures containing the back of my head?
Isn't that weird?!
Aren't I so weird and original!?!!?
I am supposed to be reading Faulkner and studying for the GREs.
I am actually eating goldfish and polishing off a warm gatorade purchased earlier this morning at 711.
I am such a rock star.