Wednesday is Hump Day

In accordance to The New Life Plan of getting my MFA in Creative Writing (and securing my spot in the unemployment line), I’m studying for the GRE. Perhaps I should say “studying” because as far as I can tell from my “Cracking the GRE” prep book, passing the third grade is all that is required of the math section:

“Decimals are just fractions in disguise. Basically, decimals and fractions are different ways of expressing the same thing. Every decimal can be written as a fraction, and every fraction can be written as a decimal. For example, the decimal .35 can be written as the fraction 35/100: these two expressions, .35 and 35/100, have the same value.”

Now, I’m sure the actual GRE isn’t quite so elementary, but I can’t help feeling that I wasted $33.95 on a book that includes such helpful notes as, “Percent literally means “per 100” or “out of 100” or “divided by 100.” If you haven’t yet mastered those tricky little percentages by the time grad school starts to sound like a good idea, well, you’re probably a lousy tipper. Necessary life skills aside, I fail to see how realizing that in the equation z2=144, z = +/-12 will ever influence my writing abilities. I’m not one of those English Majors who shrinks at the idea of math and can’t do long division in her head. I went all the way to calculus in high school (though all I really remember is loading shortcut programs onto my TI-83 Plus graphing calculator) and for a long period of my life I wanted to be an architect or an engineer. What was I thinking?

Last night after running class R and Coach G came back to my apartment for beer and burgers. While I grilled and boiled the corn on the cob, the guys set themselves to task hanging up my Bud Light dartboard that has been sadly residing under the futon for the past three years. They put Roommate M and me to shame with their superior hanging-things skills, and the dartboard is a frat-tastic addition to our living room. Of course with the apartment being so narrow, the official throwing line is exactly at the door jamb, so we have to wedge open the front door and play from the hallway. Classy. Roommate M and I have a plan to practice and get really good so we can hustle the boys for drinks at bars.

I never thought I’d say it, but I just want Labor Day to come and summer to end. I don’t know how much longer I can stand working at this Nice Hedge Fund ghost town. For the past hour C, D and I played a cutthroat game of Uno in the chairman’s empty office (C kicked our ass). We had fun, but even the game got tedious under the strain of our collective boredom. This is what despair looks like: no makeup, undone hair, flip flops and a pair of loose-fitting khakis that make me look like it’s 1995 and I should be listening to Hole’s "Doll Parts" on my Walkman. Central Park is covered by a white fog like some depressing preview of February, and I think I just dozed off at my desk for a few minutes. I need sun and sand and a frozen beverage, stat, though I’d settle for a nap and a pint of cookies and cream. In reality, I’m going to the spa to pay a small fortune for a heavily-accented woman to torture my ladyparts with hot wax and fabric strips.

Being a girl is awesome.