Well, We Won't Be Moving to Seattle

Today I received, via email, the first admissions decision from one of the six PhD programs I applied to. It was a big fat rejection. The good news is that this was my last-choice school, so I'm not in tears or anything. Just incredibly freaked out. Because for the last several weeks, this one particular question has been perenially popping into my head, and I've been doggedly squashing it. What if I don't get into any schools? Oh. My. God. What if I don't get into any schools.

I've been happy lately, because I've been enjoying my job at Barnes & Noble again. I used to love it. Then Christmas happened, and a change occurred that was so gradual, I didn't even notice it until I completely despised bookselling, the company that made me do it, and all the people I did it to. It's taken me this long to shrug off the retail hell that is December. I still hate certain things, like putting books on the shelves at the end of the night, after lazy and inconsiderate customers have left them wherever they felt like it. But the rest of the job makes me feel relatively lucky in what I do. But. Last night one of the managers was being very open about the fact that he's trying to teach me how to do extra things so I will be ripe for promotion if a position opens up. I'm being groomed for management. And that's fine. That's flattering. But actually, guys? I don't want to work at Barnes & Noble for the rest of my life.

I want to get my PhD. I want to teach. I want to write. I want to study literature unto eternity. So I hope those other five schools are listening when I say this: Please, please work with me here.