I am extremely tempted to make my facebook status a reflection on the coincidence of my sister’s birthday–the sister who spent a fair portion of my adolescence repeatedly and none-too-kindly inquiring whether I’m a lesbian–and a day of solidarity with gay teens.  But properly grownup people don’t hash out their sibling rivalries over the internet.

She’s a teacher.  This worries me sometimes.   I really, really hope the subject never comes up in her classroom, but I fear it does.  Sorry, gay kids.  I tried to answer her “what the fuck would it matter if I were?” every time she asked, but I hardly think that made your life or mine any better.

I am also tempted to eat the third biscuit the day care’s cook gave me.  I was saving it for the pastor.  But it’s calling my name.  Biiiissssssscuuuuuuuuuittttttt Ennnnnnnthuuuuusiiiiassssssttttttttttttt.  Like that.

My sinus unpleasantness has coalesced into a plain old cold.  Hooray.  No.  Really.  I am a satisfied customer.

In other news of unpleasantness, I’ve decided to stop worrying about Old Guy from the Pixies Show quite so much.  I like him a little.  He likes me a lot.  I’ve been very forthright on this point with him.  He’s a proper adult.  He can drive ten hours to see me on a flimsy excuse and take me to a fancy restaurant if he wants.  It’s his business.  I’m not giving him false premises under which to operate.

Part of the reason I’ve been so antsy in this regard is he has at least some ability to, well, advance my career.  He’s a professor.  Not an adjunct or something.  An actual professor.  The second most important person in his department, according to the university’s website.  He’s made a couple of sidelong mentions–this is less douchy than it sounds–of the help he could give me if I were to apply to graduate school where he teaches.  He’s shown a couple of my emails to the head of the creative writing department, as proof of my cleverness and my desirability as a student, for instance.  The department head wanted to know what kind of stuff I write, apparently.

If I believe this guy.  Maybe I do.  Maybe I don’t.  I don’t know.  He’s sort of sweetly backward, so it seems unlikely he’d manage such an elaborate ruse.  But I’m still not sure I believe his assurances that my acceptance to an MFA program is just an application away.

I’m dazzled a little by the prospect of getting out of here by any means.  But I’m certainly not going to, say, sleep with him for a recommendation.  I’m not going to date him so he’ll feel like helping me out.  There’s just this sweaty desperateness attached to my current situation that makes me distrust everyone and myself most of all.  Like I said: it makes me antsy.

But I’ve decided to put all that right out of my pretty little head and go about life like usual.