25 October 2005

Space Cadet

Imagine, if you will (and please do, it's a fun little trip), a nineteen year old girl. Frizzy blond hair, piled on top of her head, sticking out randomly. Wide brown eyes, with a not-quite-there gaze. Puffy jacket, ratty sweater. A denim miniskirt, seemingly cut with a dull knife while blindfolded. Pink knit legwarmers that went all the way up to meet her skirt.

And moon boots.

They even proclaimed proudly what they were: huge puffy white stompers, with "Moon Boots" written in blue.

Moon boots, my friend. The ladies of my daily guilty pleasure would have had a field day with her.

Now, I advise a lot of textile and fashion marketing students who want to go to London. I've seen some funky fashions walking through my office. Some are great and I admire appropriately, some are a little too out-there for my minimalist taste. This trend, if you can even call it that, just makes me think she has some overstated aspirations as to her intended vocation.

She shuffles into the office, twenty minutes late for her appointment. "I've never been to France before, but I want to move there and be a veterinarian. How do I do that?"

It was a long day.

11 October 2005

Pass the pipe

I must have the hookup.

I'm so smooth, I didn't even know I was smoking crack. Because, really, there's no other explanation for telling my advisor last Wednesday that I would have a draft to him on Monday.

There have been so many times this weekend that I actually wanted to post something here, but I guilted myself out of it, saying that if I were going to spend time in front of my screen, it had jolly well be moving me towards my DT.* I worked feverishly every day last week, entertained my parents on Saturday, and worked from 9 to midnight on Sunday, except for a three-hour obligatory sanity-saving M*A*S*H break. I worked on Monday all day while I was supposed to be preparing applications. I worked through lunches. I worked for all the times in the last two years that I haven't worked.

And it's crap. It's all crap. Crap filled with fluff. Fluffy crap.

I'll never finish this thing; my advisor will laugh in my face and then turn suddenly serious: "No, really, we can't let you tarnish the good name of our program by bringing this before a defense committee." I'll work and work on it and get to my defense and everything will fall apart because I didn't work enough.

Now that would be a good excuse to get some more crack.

* Damn thesis.