So, I came back from my trip only to find out that my professor (let’s just call her Professor Bitch from now on) is giving me a zero on one of the assignments because of the day she assigned it, even after telling me it would be okay before I left. Oh yeah, guess I should have just scanned it and sent it to you from our built-in car fax machine. I was like F=1/2 mv superscript fuck!
I’d like to tell you that I told that bitch how it was…but I did not. I always tell people that I’m not a doormat and will stand up for myself when the time comes. But somehow my watch always skips a tick or a tock and before you know it it’s 5:00, a time for drinking not confidence building exercises. So now, not only do I get a zero on the assignment, but I’m also 3 weeks ahead of everyone else because they did not get to the other assignment.
I am surprisingly glad to be home. Despite Professor Bitch’s attempt to ruin my week, I was super stoked to be back around people that understand my twenty-something year old plight and who do not think shots of whiskey are the end of life as we know it.
Do you know what is the end of life as we know it?! The fucking ice bucket challenge. It’s not a fucking cure for global warming and apparently not for ALS either. Stop pouring ice on your head like you just won the Superbowl and challenge yourself to donate some fucking money. Bucket O’ Green challenge for you Irish folk.
Lately, I find myself using the phrase, “I’m not about that life.” Someone says, “Hey, you should go do the ice bucket challenge.” and I reply, “I’m not about that life.”
Today, I was like Okay you hipster Savannah, what life are you about? My immediate inclination was thug life. I like to listen to rap music loudly in my car, walk while I drag one leg behind me, and fuck I’m all about getting some tits in my face at the nearest strip joint.
Okay, but seriously. What life am I about? I have sort of put my life on the line applying for journalism master’s programs that I really have no business applying to. But there is the lingering thought…What happens if I don’t get accepted?
Stripping and prostitution seem like the most obvious answer, but let’s face it, my love just doesn’t come for free despite what my skeezy roommate Connor might suggest. In fact, my love comes for a high price, sort of like the ones they don’t list next to expensive gowns and jewelry in catalogs or like the restaurant menus with no numbers after the decimal point. There are also lots of commitment strings attached. It’s really like a big fucking celebrity rider. Must show up for important life events…Needs access to ice cream at various times of the day…Must have an broad knowledge of things like pilot lights, spare tires, and pension… whatever the fuck that is.
Since any form of sexual entertainment is off the table for now, I’m inclined to think marrying rich is my only real option. While knowing how to inoculate an agar plate or focus a fluorescent microscope on a specimen may seem like practical applications in the real world…they are not. They are about as practical as knowing how to open a beer bottle with a quarter and a magnet. Here’s a job! SAID NO ONE EVER!
I told Connor I could try stand-up comedy and he was like…”Why? So you can laugh at all your jokes like you do now?” I was like well fuck, someone has to. Then I informed him that the field of comedy was limited to overweight men and insecure women…………………….so come see me at open mic night Wednesdays 7:00 at our local Holiday Inn (no not the Chingy song). Thank god it does not interfere with karaoke Tuesdays at Motel 6.
Here’s the thing, my Bachelor’s Degree in Biology is fucking worthless. It’s the most 8 1/2 X 11 thing you’ve ever seen and it just mocks me. Look at me, I’m just a piece of paper. It only took you 12 grand in loans, approximately 8 million flash cards, and 10 heartbreaks…but hey I’m here! Just chillin on your wall…in a frame…from the ole Hobby Lobby.
I got an email the other day from our Alumni Association basically asking for success stories from recent graduates and I wanted to commit suicide. I felt like emailing them back and telling them how I could not find a job so I started having sex with professors for money, acquired a gambling addiction, and was now running with the basketball player crowd encouraging them to shave points this season. How’s that for success you stupid sons of bitches?
Regardless of whether or not I get accepted into a Master’s Program, I have decided I am finally leaving my college town this summer. Everyone keeps asking me where I’m going and I just reply, “The sky is the limit.” which is code for…I have no fucking idea.
This means I have almost a year left to leave with the biggest bang possible. Preferably the most bang for my buck if you know what I’m sayin’ …I think you do. I am currently working on a list of how to make this the best last year here ever, one which I will fully intend to share with you in my next post.
My skeeze of the day goes to this older guy at the bar the other night. I was completely wasted and he tried to kiss me and then asked if I wanted to go home with him. Points for being straight forward, but trying to take advantage of me in my drunken state…so skeezy. I remember telling him no, walking my little 5’0 self home, and then at some point puking. For the record, age is not just a number. It’s often two numbers that stand side by side and are listed in order of priority. Whether that first number is a 1, 2, 3, or a 4 has started to become very important these days…no matter how drunk I am.
If you wanted to drop a comment in that box…I’d be cool with it. Just so you know.