As of about 6:00 PM yesterday evening, I discovered that I had not, in fact, horribly failed the four courses I took in the fall.
I use that bit of information to rationalize that while I did not have my best term, I at least performed to the minimal capacity required to fulfill my credits.
In other words, I am now eligible to graduate.
...
That word, that phrase, that
CONCEPT - it just all seems too foreign for my feeble little mind to comprehend. Just four years ago, I stared in anguish at abyssmal first semester marks, experiencing Hell on Earth in the form of shame, humiliation, defeat, failure....and a myriad of other emotions that made me contemplate if suicide was, in fact, painless.
I've changed my major twice. I've changed my career goal twice. I've dredged through some of the most dull lectures, some of the most (for lack of a better term)
balls-breakingly difficult labs that spanned an unforgiving 3 hours.
I like to joke that it took me four years to learn that I officially and unequivocally
despise science.
My parents still want me to pursue a career in the medical field. Not doctor, mind you - just a position in a field that the Baby Boomers will dramatically alter as they begin to retire and require further care. My mother blindly insists that I consider Ultrasound - which is an excellent and honorable profession - but she neglects to understand that:
a) I have no interest in Ultrasound,
b) Physics is required, and after undergrad I vowed to never again subject myself to that....subject,
and most importantly of all,
c) it requires more education, something that my mentally-taxed brain and sensitive, fiscally-raped assets can no longer endure (at least for the time being).
So now my mother has decided to disown me, since I can no longer reliably provide her with a comfortable retirement consisting of weekly cheques in the five-figure range.
Quelle dommage. I've other siblings, though. Perhaps one will become a doctor or lawyer and properly fulfill their duty of fealty to our parents.
Not me, however. From the looks of things, I'll enjoy a bright future as a struggling freelance writer that moonlights as an amateur porn actress, only to marry a wealthy (but physically and morally repugnant) middle-aged man who will gladly fund my eventual Vicodin addiction in exchange for kinky public sex....that is, until I refuse and suffer a nervous breakdown, only to be found curled up in a delapidated and soggy cardboard box, dead at the ripe old age of 29.
I can't wait.
