It's cold on the underside of the Earth.

I have decided on the graduate schools I'm going to persue later this year. I've narrowed it down to five that would give me a never-ending boner if I got in, and five more that create an equally-as-large boner. This tells me a few things:

** I'm probably going to be reworking the same 10 poems for the rest of the year and that really doesn't bother me one bit.
** It might become tedious to start harassing teachers about getting letters of recommendation. Although, it'll probably be sweet to read letters that are fellating your best attributes.
** I might vomit a few times when I think about a board of individuals reading my literature and an essay about me and base me on "merit" and "potential."
** The thought of gradaute school excites me. I want to be in a small classroom with other people drinking Starbucks, running their fingers through unwashed coconut menthol hair, and nodding their head once somebody makes a great point about "last night's assignment." I'm practically crying just thinking about it.
** My beliefs that I belong in an academic insitution until somebody pours dirt over my embalmed face is pretty much true. I don't belong behind this stupid counter looking at this jerks jacket sit on a counter while he tapes a box together and ships off a pair of sneakers to his wife in Boulder.

I'll need to become more ruthless. Cerebral. A rusty bear trap covered in anthrax. Graduate school is a competition. Sure, I'm competative. Like... at Madden and with my Volkswagen stuff. But writing? I'm an optiate float when it comes to writing. I want everyone to do well. I want everyone to write the greatest piece of literature of all-time and get to be on Oprah and talk about it while breastfeeding mom's get excited about plot and the way my jeans are rolled up.

When I send out grad school applications, I'm going to include a knife with test scores and everything else that I shove into an envelope. I'll carve, "Cut up shitty manuscripts, please" into the handle.

Tonight, I'll probably have nothing for dinner, and eat nothing tomorrow for lunch. My body needs to eat its excess and celebrate that there's enough of me to feed on.