Graduate school has effectively flattened me out like some store display, into a one-dimensional drone who serves to feed the awesome Intellectual Machine. I know I am supposed to feel privileged to be here, and despite this grinding, and sometimes unfulfilling, work (which I should be doing instead of writing this) I do, but there is a part of me that could care less. A half a semester is as long as I want to think about this scholarly stuff, thank you.
We’ll see how my graduate career arcs and dips and eventually turns out. One of my professors sent me an e-mail trying to convince me to stay on for a PhD. While I found her comments complimentary and a much needed validation at a fairly low time for me, I concluded that the only reason to stay on for two more years is for the novelty of being called Dr.
Now that would be hilarious.
I doubt I could handle it, though, if I am already completely devastated by my first semester midterms.
My office is cold–the landlord hasn’t lit the pilot lights of my little gas room heater. They are forecasting snow flurries tomorrow. Brrr. My bike ride to school is bound to get frigid soon, and I will have to retreat to the bus.