How About The Ones I Sold to Hustler?

I gave myself an asthma attack yesterday after running through South Station for my train, hauling myself uphill through a fog of evil, evil pollen spores, and then, the clincher, opening my mail of the porch where I found the acceptance letter from my new grad school.

Beau herded me up two flights of stairs and helped me look for my inhaler while I wheezed, “They let me in. I’m gonna be edumacated. Wheez. Yay! Wheez. Suckers.”

A few hits later and I felt strong enough to call Bologna who congratulated me heartily and my father who quickly turned the conversation to himself, like usual. Bless him.

I floated into work this morning and found a new use for my good news: pissing off Boss Lady, who you may remember, is none too fond of me. I found her and Bell stirring their morning coffee in the kitchen where I promptly spilled the beans because I am physically incapable of keeping secrets or good news pertaining to myself. Bell hugged me and smiling said, “Good for you, honey! Oh, congratulations!”

Boss Lady said “Yay” and walked out of the room. That means I win.

After exhausting the orientation website, I decided it was time to mail the form (the one saying I accept their acceptance of my application) but first, I had to fulfill their request of a small photo of myself. I browsed through my pictures and came to a horrible, terrible realization. I am drunk in every photo of myself. No, but seriously:

Internet, I don’t have a problem. If anyone here has a problem, it’s you. You have a problem judging others. Let me have my fun now before my funds are sucked dry on things like tuition and books and thick framed glasses to make me look smarter. Anyway, I finally found one lone solitary picture taken 3 years ago during my summer abroad in England that sufficed but sorry ladies, I had to crop you out:

That’s the one they’re getting unless of course, they find my blog in which case they can have all of my other ones too.