It’s Official?

Today, armed with my transcripts, DARS (Degree Audit Reporting System) report, a standard black, ballpoint pen by Bic and printouts of countless emails just in case I needed proof that I was given the green light to take one class in place of another, I walked into the Creative Writing Chairperson’s office to have my graduation application signed.

Max and I have never been buddy buddy. I think this might be because I’ve been obsessively emailing her for the last 4 years about everything that has to do with being a CW student. Also, she’s not the loveliest of people. Her appearance and gait match almost exactly that of my 6th grade music teacher, Ms. McNab. Ms. McNab was a nasty old woman with a bad ankle, a banshee-like voice, glasses thick as fresh memo tablets and long, yellow finger nails. And if that isn’t bad enough, she also always had these old band aids on her face that would start to slip off towards the end of the day. I’m not really sure why they were there at all, except that I wouldn’t be surprised if Leprosy had something to do with it.

Okay, Max isn’t like that at all. She’s got a little bit of a hobble in her step, but that’s probably because of her gigantic ass. And she has a tinge of yellow in her nails and her face looks a little eaten, but that’s probably because she’s old. And queen of the underworld.

I wasn’t thrilled that I had to actually meet with her in person. In fact, if you haven’t guessed by now, I was dreading it. I walked into her cool office today with a fever (I’m sick) sweaty palms and a folder full of the said documents that her secretary said I’d need, including the application which I handed to her while stuttering something stupid because that's what flaming idiots do.

She took it, glanced at it, whipped out her own, fancy-shmancy pen and signed the bottom line. The whole thing took about forty-five seconds.

I couldn't believe it. You mean no complications? No twenty thousand units that I somehow managed to miss? No problem of the teeniest, tiniest nature? I walked out feeling like I had missed something. Like it shouldn’t have been that easy. Just the day before I had to do the same thing but for my Art major and was faced with a whole array of issues that I’m still trying to resolve.

But this whole writing thing. You mean, I’m done? No more baring my soul in fiction pieces to workshops full of people who are thisclose to falling asleep? No more faking emotion in poetry because I’m not good at it and never will be? No more spending hours on end pulling genuine shit out of my ass? You’re actually giving me the degree, just like that?

She said "congratulations" and gave me a smile that made it look like she could have actually meant it and I walked out feeling dazed and confused.

For some reason I don’t feel like I deserve it. This could be a problem.