Jealousy

I'm not a jealous boyfriend.  I've never been that kind of a guy.  However, I am growing jealous of a couple of goals that my close friends have accomplished lately.

A guy that I graduated undergrad with at Michigan just finished his PhD at Florida.  It's the most mixed my feelings about grad school have been lately.  I'm really happy for him, and I'm excited that he made it.  Simultaneously, I'm pissed off that he's completely done, yet I gave up just months ago.  I did just as well as him in undergrad, so why do I suck?  I know a few more peeps that are struggling to be done with their PhDs by the end of the next school year.  I feel like each one that finishes will deserve a night of well-deserved alcoholism on my part, with or without their company.

I've long wanted to write a book, also.  I've started several of them, and I weekly come up with another short story idea that I should jot down.  I even had these dreams of publishing a book to help support living in L.A. so I could worry less about money and more about school.  The fruit of all of this interest in writing?  This blog.  It was my only way to vent, and I hope that it helps hone in on my point of view and writing style.  (Yet it still feels chaotic and point-less each time I'm writing a post.)

Combine those together, and I have to admit how furiously jealous I am of Aimee Hubble.  (Yes, that's the first full name [other than myself] that I've used on this blog.  I prefer the victims of my stories remain relatively anonymous in the large scope of the interwebz.)  While being a graduate student at Michigan (she was a year behind me, but is due to be Dr. Aimee in the next year or so), she managed to publish a book: The Last High Priest.

I can't attest to the quality of it, but I'm excited to read it.  I just ordered my copy, and you can find out how to get your copies at her blog.  It looks right up my alley, and I'm happy to watch her make her first million off of it.  You should snag a copy, so I can live vicariously through her.

Cheers, Aimee!!  Damn you.
~RoB

10-Year High School Reunion

Much like good mnemonics for my name, I regularly contemplate my 10-Year High School Reunion.  I think that it was one of the motivators toward getting a PhD, though just a small voice way in the back of my brain.

10 years after high school, everything is supposed to be figured out.  You return to your hometown and meet up in your crappy, old cafeteria (decorated just as shitty as you remember your homecomings being).  Everyone is supposed to look older and talk about their husbands and wives and kids.  People talk about their college life, and their careers, and where they've traveled.  Rather you've made it in life or not is pretty much nailed down that night.

Had I stayed on the PhD track, it's likely I would have had it before my 10 year reunion.  Now, I obviously will not.  Should it really matter all that much?  Do I really need that stupid piece of paper to substantiate how much better I am than all of those people?  In all that time I wasted on school, I didn't actually collect all of those tokens on the LIFE board that I should have by now.  I mean, I could go back and actually be making less than some of those grease monkeys that just worked continuously after failing out of high school.  How the fuck am I supposed to get voted 'most successful' like that?

I also expect everyone to show up fat.  I actually pray that all the pretty people show up weighing in at 300+ pounds.  I don't want to be another on that tally.  When I graduated (valedictorian), I weighed in at a whopping 170 lbs, which is damn sexy.  (There's never been any help for my face, so we'll just use weight as a metric of sexiness.)  Since then, I've been as large as 235 lbs.  Not so sexy.  Now, I hover somewhere around 215 lbs.  I'm more than confident that I could drop 25 pounds or so, but I've been saying that for a few years now, and I'm not getting any younger.

I can't believe that I ever think of it, but I do so regularly that it blows my mind.

On a good note, I only trust 1.5 of my class officers, so I guess I shouldn't even worry about it.  It probably won't even happen.  Or it will happen at Denny's, so the fatties have somewhere to rest their oxygen tanks while they drink small bowls of ranch dressing.

Wow, I must have really hated high school,
~RoB

It's Official

I'm officially not a registered student at UCLA, though I think they want $2000 from me for withdrawing.  Don't see that happening anytime soon.  I departed UCLA yesterday with my shiny new diploma (master of science) in hand.  Keys are turned in and office is clear.

Granny also came home from the hospital last night.  I haven't been able to reach her for the past few days (things must still be a whirlwind there), but I'm trying again in 20 minutes.  Nobody has told me anything as far as prognosis (that the right word?), so I have no clue how she's actually doing.  It's ok, I haven't really told them anything of my situation for most of the same reasons, so we'll just keep movin' on.  By the way, thank you, seriously, to all who ignored my request and offered your sympathies for her anyway.  It meant just a little bit more that you cared so much that you didn't care rather or not I wanted to hear it.

I drove another carload of stuff up yesterday.  On the way I had 4 big realizations:
- I can list all the big landmarks of I-5 from L.A. to Livermore, and they're pathetic.
- I think I'm technically a transient now.
- The guy that I could see in my rear view mirror looked really awkward while he was picking his nose.  I should probably stop picking my nose when I drive.
- A long time ago, I spoke with a friend about how he wanted to get each level of college degree at different universities; bachelor's, master's, and doctorate at 3 different schools.  If I return to college somewhere and get a PhD in the future, I will have done that, without really trying.  I'll probably also pick up an extra 2 master's degrees along the way.  Crazy.

I have no clue where all of my stuff is going to go.  Annie's apartment is nice, and cute, but in no way can her room handle 2 people's stuff.  I'm swinging by IKEA today to see what magic they can do.  Today, I also have to call and start canceling everything and changing my address.  It's also time to start emailing people and notify them that I've officially left Los Angeles.  I hate emails like that.  I'm so awkward.

Tuesday, my apt was so busy.  2 insurance adjustors showed up to take pictures and talk with me.  A lady showed up to turn off our gas.  Apparently, it never got switched over to my name.  I gave her $40 and she just left.  She was the most unprofessional person I've dealt with in a long time: "I don't give a shit," she says.  The last knock on the door was the most surprising.

I opened the door and my 2 closest L.A. friends were standing there.  They had taken off work to come and make sure I was ok.  They had heard a little from my blog, but they wanted me to tell them to their faces.  It was heartwarming knowing that there were a few people in L.A. that cared that much for me.  They offered their houses, $, help, and had the courtesy to not yell at me, even though they might not agree with me giving up on my dream of being Dr. Rob, for now.  They took me out to go see The Fighter, which was amazing.  We also went to Ugo's Wine Bar in Culver City, which was also really fun.

They also made me swore that I wouldn't blog about it.  Come on.  I blogged about DIWMGf.  It's not like anybody reads this anyway.  I just wanted to show how nice my closest friends are, maybe to help defend why I only have a few close friends.

Don't get pissed,
~RoB