I'm afraid so, Grad...
...grad school, that is.
For those who haven't been victim to my blathering elsewhere, I gathered up my quivering nutsack and enrolled in school. I won't lie: the thought of returning to school after 15 years and amassing a whole new level of student loans gave me a few moments of genuine and spontaneous panic in the days leading up to my first class. Chair cushions may have been ruined in those moments; let's put them by the road and say no more about it.
One class down and ass deep in the second, I've gotta give it Bucky's Fickle Finger of Fuck Yeah!
I'm working toward a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing. The main focuses of the curriculum are writing for movies, animation, and gaming. The pace is a bit insane, since online classes always move faster than their onground counterparts, and I can't remember the last time I wrote this much since I used to remember that I had a blog.
And the best part? When all this is over, I get to wear a cowl. I'm told the assless chaps/grad cowl look is all the rage in Milan. You know me - always fashion forward. Forward into a pair of oversized sweatpants, an "I fling poo" t-shirt, and salmon espadrilles.
In other "I'm so fucking sick of hearing her go on about this shit!" news, I bought a Kinect and now I am obsessed, hooked, jonesing if I'm away too long: I love Dance Central. Probably not enough to marry it, but certainly enough to hump it in the back seat of my parents' Pontiac.
Make no mistake: I'm not a dancer. Even if I think I am when I'm drunk, it ain't so. But it doesn't have to be pretty for this game - your limbs and such have to be doing approximately the right thing, but not exactly, which is good; I'm too old and tubby to defy gravity like the impossibly hot young things you can pick as your dance instructor/guide. Um, not that I think any video game characters are hot, certainly not, because that would be, you know, weird. ahem
No, I'm sure I look like a manatee mime when I'm playing, but here's the prize in your Cracker Jacks: I've lost at least 15 pounds since I started playing in January. I have finally found an exercise where I never miss a workout, I never slack, because I can't wait to get in front of the TV and play the damned thing. Also: a bra is mandatory, especially if my poor sister is around to witness the flappery. I think it's a good rule of thumb that one's breasts should not provide sound effects while exercising. Later, though, after you've polished off the fifth of Jack and you're reaching for the Crisco, all bets are off.
And that's how you start off with a discussion of higher education and wind up with buttsex jokes. I have my own special map, and all roads, circuitous or direct, lead to the gutter.
For those who haven't been victim to my blathering elsewhere, I gathered up my quivering nutsack and enrolled in school. I won't lie: the thought of returning to school after 15 years and amassing a whole new level of student loans gave me a few moments of genuine and spontaneous panic in the days leading up to my first class. Chair cushions may have been ruined in those moments; let's put them by the road and say no more about it.
One class down and ass deep in the second, I've gotta give it Bucky's Fickle Finger of Fuck Yeah!
I'm working toward a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing. The main focuses of the curriculum are writing for movies, animation, and gaming. The pace is a bit insane, since online classes always move faster than their onground counterparts, and I can't remember the last time I wrote this much since I used to remember that I had a blog.
And the best part? When all this is over, I get to wear a cowl. I'm told the assless chaps/grad cowl look is all the rage in Milan. You know me - always fashion forward. Forward into a pair of oversized sweatpants, an "I fling poo" t-shirt, and salmon espadrilles.
In other "I'm so fucking sick of hearing her go on about this shit!" news, I bought a Kinect and now I am obsessed, hooked, jonesing if I'm away too long: I love Dance Central. Probably not enough to marry it, but certainly enough to hump it in the back seat of my parents' Pontiac.
Make no mistake: I'm not a dancer. Even if I think I am when I'm drunk, it ain't so. But it doesn't have to be pretty for this game - your limbs and such have to be doing approximately the right thing, but not exactly, which is good; I'm too old and tubby to defy gravity like the impossibly hot young things you can pick as your dance instructor/guide. Um, not that I think any video game characters are hot, certainly not, because that would be, you know, weird. ahem
No, I'm sure I look like a manatee mime when I'm playing, but here's the prize in your Cracker Jacks: I've lost at least 15 pounds since I started playing in January. I have finally found an exercise where I never miss a workout, I never slack, because I can't wait to get in front of the TV and play the damned thing. Also: a bra is mandatory, especially if my poor sister is around to witness the flappery. I think it's a good rule of thumb that one's breasts should not provide sound effects while exercising. Later, though, after you've polished off the fifth of Jack and you're reaching for the Crisco, all bets are off.
And that's how you start off with a discussion of higher education and wind up with buttsex jokes. I have my own special map, and all roads, circuitous or direct, lead to the gutter.