Wait, what.

It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything is solved.

There’s a lot of back story that wouldn’t interest you, but some select people in charge of my grant have been jerking me around since I found out I won it. Two solid months. I don’t think any of them are malicious, but there is apparently no communication between parties and no one knew the rules of their own grant.

First they told me I needed to be a returning student for 1 credit, which meant delaying my graduation until next semester. Fine. I tried to squirm my way out of it, didn’t succeed, signed up for yoga and that was that.

Then, after speaking with several people two weeks ago, I was told that I needed at least 3 credits and MAY need 6.

I wait two weeks for an e-mail. I hear nothing. Just in case, I decide to sign up for 6 credits anyway and then apply for Financial Aid. Late. Because I had no idea I would need to sign up on FAFSA again.

I received an e-mail last night from my professor, telling me that they were taking me off the trip because even though I was signed up for 6 credits next semester, I’ve finished all of my degree requirements… so I would technically be returning as a non-degree student, which is not eligible. What the fuck?! The kicker is that it was too late to even apply to graduation. So even if I took that fate, I wouldn’t have been able to graduate! They were trying to kick me off the grant because it was time for me to graduate, but the school wouldn’t have allowed me to sign up for graduation!

I MEAN, COME ON. SORRY. NOPE. NOPE NOPE NOPE. On top of that, and this is just DELICIOUS, they all went behind my back and made my professor be the bearer of bad news. She even suggested in a phone call I had with her that night that they didn’t contact me instead because they were nervous giving bad news so late in the game, when they dropped the ball.

It’s fixed. I changed my English degree to an English with a Concentration in Writing. I’m taking 6 credits of writing courses with what I hear is a wonderful professor next semester, I’m going to Israel this summer, and no one is going to have to hear me call them a cunt to their faces.

I have whatever the blue balls equivalent to anger is right now. All of this anger and nowhere to shoot it.

There is an old man sitting next to me. I don’t know if he’s faculty or a student.

My lungs stop working around most old people — Oh god he just made a noise.

My lungs stop working around most really old people. Their sunspots and wrinkled lips and failing internal organs that are not definitely there, but probably there, make me want to give up. Because there I am. At the end of this, I’m that old guy sitting over there. He’s making noises because he’s going to be dead soon and I think after you reach 75, noises just have to escape just to keep you alive.

His hands are deceptively young looking, which is really great for me — Oh god, He made another noise.

I can’t work on anything because I’m going to die someday and people won’t stop being old and reminding me of that.

I haven’t cried yet, you know. Through all this fucking frustration and anger I have yet to cry.

I can’t even get over how fucking angry I am. I can’t remember the last time I was feeling this vindictive.

I’m going to get my way. I explained the situation to my father and as I left he said, “well, you’ve always been good at arguing…” which really means “you’re great at being a cunt to me, your own father, so I’m sure you’ll easily tear these strangers 9 new different kinds of orifices.”

If all else fails I’m going to piss on their floor and tell them that Skinny Pete from Breaking Bad follows me on Twitter, so obviously they upset a very important person.

The good news is I woke up 5 hours later, still angry. I don’t have many motivators in life, but anger is one of them.

Now it’s a waiting game. Go to class. Write papers. Wait for the call that’s going to either tell me the situation is fixed or that it’s not resolved. If the latter is true, the only way I’m leaving their fucking building without a “yes” is if I’m threatened to be escorted out by a police officer.

I do not allow people to fuck me over.

I aim to please. I am a tumbleweed and will go where the wind, or my friends, take me. I do not resist much and I confront very little. I reserve my resistance and pushiness for when it really counts.

For my own sake, this problem I am having will remain vague until it is resolved, and it is my promise to myself that it will end up fucking resolved.

You cannot take something from me.

I want it. It’s mine. I deserve it. No one is taking it from me. I will go so far over your fucking heads that you will wish you didn’t work there. You are weak individuals. Smiled at me in person, didn’t return my e-mails, and then informed third parties that you’re taking something from me that is very clearly mine?

You haven’t fucking seen me when I want something. You fucking saw me when I had a question. You saw me when I knew being polite and kind would get me where I want. Being polite and kind won’t get me what I want now. I’ll fucking ruin your self-esteem for a year with one goddamned sneer. I will make you wish you called out sick with a single fucking sentence.

“You have a beautiful smile.” One of your partners said that. I wonder if you overheard. Wait until you see what this fucking mouth can do when it’s not smiling.

I bet if I explained what happened to my soul during finals week to a doctor, I could get a note getting me out of all final papers and tests. I’m pretty sure my internal being is made of a black tornado that sucks up little kids from homes and then turns their souls evil and spits them back out. That’s how my soul feels during finals week.

I’m just going to sit here and take a homework break in front of Khloe and Lamar with this bowl of chili as my lunch, because it is way too hot and I feel like my homework breaks should be punished in some sort of way. 

Happy Sunday!

SUBURBIA, MASSACHUSETTS - Caragh Poh XVIII was found dead in her bathrobe early Saturday morning. Sources say the 24 year old woman was found in the shower. Her released medical documents list “just kind of gave up, I guess” and “sat on her father’s pube” as causes of death. “Caragh spent over 3 hours blogging about how traumatized she was about sitting on her father’s pube,” a family friend said said. “I mean, yeah, sitting on your father’s pube is terrible, but 3 hours? It got weird. It got weird.”

It’s only been 5 minutes since I sat on the stray follicle that fell off of my father’s middle-aged ballsac, but here’s what I’ve gathered changes in your life after it happens:

• You feel unclean. Not only on your bare bottom which touched the pube in the first place, but your soul.
• You want to find God for the first time since you were 16 and first lost your faith.
• You think about killing all of the fathers out there in the name of safety and justice. They’re all walking around with pubic hair that is threatening to fall out onto the toilet seat that their daughters will use. It becomes your duty as a woman — nay, as a human being — to prevent this from happening to another person.
• You blog about it.
• You think about killing yourself.
• Your face starts melting and it getsi ntoyour kenbybard

I could give context, but it doesn’t even matter. I can’t go back. Nothing will be the same. I sat on my father’s pube.