Man cannot live by bread alone but by every word which proceeds from the mouth of Katie. And by mouth, I of course mean hands. So read on, little ones, and fill yourself full on this month of November, starting from the bottom of the page.
November 20th, 2003:
Dear Ex-"Boyfriend"™,
Stop saying things that you don't mean.
I'm not going to tell your wife that you tried to get inside of me on our very first "date".
You fucking coward.
Love,
November 12th, 2003: My five-year plan took a horrible, resonant blow this morning when I received word that I, Katie Ett, have been rejected from the winter quarter Advanced Writing of Poetry class here at THE Ohio State University. And not for a good reason, either. If it was because my poetry is lacking, I'd take the fall and improve myself, but no, it's because professors revel in their ability to help students and their decisions not to.
To be admitted into advanced writing classes, I have to submit portfolios of my work a quarter in advance. For winter quarter, the professor listed the deadline as November 10th but mentioned that he preferred to have work by October 31st. I turned a sample of six poems in on the 7th, congratulating myself on the fantastic impression that I was going to make with my promptness.
And then I go an e-mail from the professor last night that read:
Ms. Ett,
I'm afraid that I did not receive your ms until after the class was full.
That's too bad because your work is good and it would have been a pleasure
to have had you in the class.
I returned it with:
I'm a little disgruntled by this news of your class being full before you had the chance to read my portfolio. As the English undergraduate website lists your deadline as November 10th and my poems were in your mailbox on the 7th, I would assume that no decision as to the class roster should be made until all submissions are received.
I hope to graduate in the spring and am working on my focus in creative writing, so having a fair shot at this class is obviously very important to me and my plans for graduate school.
Thanks for your consideration.
And his response was:
Ms. Ett,
You assumed wrong.
Ouch.
My five-year plan used to look like this:
Year 1 (this year): Take a winter poetry-writing class. Write an honours thesis as a personal challenge. Apply to the University of Georgia's Ph.D. program in creative writing. Graduate in June after four years of college with a BA in English with a focus in creative writing.
Year 2: Move to Athens, Georgia, to join the University of Georgia's Ph.D. program in creative writing. Take some classes. Attend lots of Jump, Little Children concerts.
Year 3: Take more classes. Earn my Master's degree in creative writing. Attend lots more Jump, Little Children concerts.
Year 4: Take more classes. Attend even more Jump, Little Children concerts. Write my dissertation. Meet a wealthy man who wants to travel the world with me while I write books.
Year 5: Defend my dissertation. Earn my Ph.D. in creative writing. Forget that I have a Ph.D. and travel the world with my rich companion/husband/lover. Write books and become ridiculously famous.
Now, my five-year plan looks more like this:
Year 1 (this year): Don't take a winter poetry-writing class. Don't write an honours thesis. Don't graduate. Spend the spring canvassing the U.S. in support of my 2004 Presidential candidate of choice, Dennis Kucinich. Spend the summer in Germany, drinking myself depressed and sleeping with a shoeless boy named Karsten.
Year 2: Take a winter poetry class. Take a fall and a spring one, too. Write my honours thesis in creative writing. Finally apply to the University of Georgia's Ph.D. program in creative writing. Find out that I'm pregnant with Karsten's babies. Quintuplets.
Year 3: Move back to Germany with baby Otto, little Fritz, Schmidt, Grete, and Karsten, Jr. Drink lots of Worcestershire sauce. Take up smoking and recreational self-mutilation.
Year 4: Kill myself.
You see, there no longer is a Year 5. And it's all your fault, Professor Hudgins.
¤ Katiett ¤