So...

... just a thought: I'm so sick and tired of being the nice girl with the funny story who goes home alone.

I don't really know how to put it any other way.

Recently I've been hanging out with a handful of the technical crew with the MSF and while that has been a wonderful diversion, I'm still spending the majority of my evenings either at work or at home. I can't remember the last time somebody took me to dinner and a movie. Not to be shallow, but it's been a very, very long time since I've actually thought that some fellow held the door open for me so he could look at my ass and then smiled about it. I miss that.

Right now, I'm verging on side-show. Particularly with the way work has been lately, I'm the one who tells the amazing story about her day, people hoot and guffaw, but invariably somebody pats me on the head and I wander home alone. Boo, I say.

I know I'm too busy for a serious relationship right now, and I'm leaving the country soon. However, whatever happened to the summer fling? More to the point, what happened to MY summer fling? That enchanted stretch of time when everything was exquisitely superficial and the lightness of non-existent expectations made things so simple... oh, wait. Now I remember.

In the end, I'm officially announcing to you, my imaginary reader, that I'm looking for a simple free-time buddy. Maybe we'll catch an occasional baseball game, play a couple hands of poker, drink cheap beer while standing in a kitchen, picnic, and relieve some of my tension. No strings attached. I will not leave work early for him, I won't call him every night just to talk. He won't want to introduce me to his friends, he wouldn't meet my family. Just nice and simple. I'd appreciate a sweet guy who just wants to hang out and maybe some meaningless, good-natured physical contact-- does that every happen? To anyone?

What really irritates me is that the gentlemen I'm spending the most time with are either very, very married and yet adorable or (most likely) hitting something right now that I watched unfold right in front of me earlier tonight.

Which is why I'm writing this and debating drinking more and writing less or writing more and spending less. Goddamn toss-up, if you ask me.

Miss Melville is GOING TO GRAD SCHOOL!

Yes, that's right-- I read the e-mail right around noon, yelped and called out, "Oh My God," and promptly found myself on the verge of tears. I could hardly believe it. I just had the telephone interview on Monday, and now...

I've been accepted as an MA candidate at Oxford-Brookes University in Oxford, England.

Me. Going to the UK as a Grad Student. I still can't believe it.



[WARNING: self-analysis of psyche impending]
I know that I'm a decent student and I'm pretty fond of my own turn of phrase, but I guess I never really thought that I would get in anywhere. I mean, my BA is from a tiny, no-name state school with no real claim to fame, and my grades never were PERFECT. They were decent, I've done some unusual stuff, and I interview pretty well, but none of that really compensated in my mind. I'm not the BEST student, I'm not the BRIGHTEST person on the planet, and I never really believed that I was good enough for this. How could I be? I'm just a girl from a podunk town in Michigan who kinda liked to read. Getting the rejection letter from St. Andrews was tough, but it only confirmed what I'd always secretly thought-- that I was pretending to be an adult and a good student, and my bluff had finally been called.
But now... now I get to go. I get to sit in lecture halls again and read challenging texts and speak my mind and be both right and wrong. Oh, god, how wonderful...


Now, to be honest, Oxford-Brookes was not my first choice. In fact, it's still not. If I were to be accepted to either Aberdeen or Edinburgh, I'd head there. Regardless, the best part is simply knowing that I'm not shit out of luck come the end of August, left to nothing better than sitting in my parents' basement, twiddling my thumbs and trying to repay my loans.

I'm still in shock, I think.