Yeah, in your pocket, whore!!!

Yes, I know, I usually take the weekends off, but then I get angry messages from Imladris posed as some alias of Karen Walker and that just gets annoying. So I'm updating. Feel free to bow before my internet kindness. I've found a way to talk to people without ever actually having to see them. And introvert's dream. (I'm kidding, y'all. I'm not socially challenged.)

Thanks to the fast little workers at the registrar of deeds office, I now have a certified copy of my birth certificate. Identical, probably, to the copy that is undoubtedly in "a safe place" here in my house where no one will ever find it. Because while I may be irresponsible at times and maybe sometimes go on cleaning binges where I tend to just throw everythign in a Hefty bag and put it at the end of the driveway, I'm fairly certain that I would not have just tossed a certified copy of my birth certificate. Not that we're swamped with Irish runaways or anything, but that seems insecure, no? I may have shredded it, though, because I have an inexplicable attraction to shredding...hmmm...

I was slightly suprised by the date, September 15th. Four days seems awfully quick for filing the birth certificate of a dying baby. Then I realized that the hospital did that, which made me feel better because my parents were in the NICU with me and not doing paperwork. I would not have taken kindly to that.

So now I can go get a passport. Not that I have any reason to have one. And sometimes you need to have travel plans to get one. Hmmm. Might have to perjure myself there. Never actually perjured myself. Sounds interesting, actually.

Major academic crisis, y'all. Not immediate crisis, like "Oh my God there isn't another math class!" but rather a longer, existential crisis like, "Where am I going?" I'm a naturally practical person (except when it comes to my DVD expenditure), probably almost to a fault. So it makes sense that I'd choose something practical for my career. Except that I haven't. I mean, international relations is practical, although the learning Russian because I have deluded myself into thinking that I am Russian is another matter. But now I really want to minor in art history, because I loved it so much. And I would love to work at a museum or a gallery or end up in some literary thriller in a cute skirt with heels running through a long hallway because some priceless artifact has been taken only to join up with the hot intellectual guy and we solve the day and then make out and...okay, going to stop now...

I blame my mother for this. Why??? you ask, she has been nothing but supportive of you!!! I know. Not my point.

I want to go to law school. I'm not entirely sure that I want to be a lawyer, but I know that I really want that degree. My mother, who went into law school with the idea that it would be fun meetings and lunch only to realize that it's more like bastard attorneys and long nights in the library, wants to make damn sure that I know it's just bastard attorneys and long nights in the library (although, to be fair, she didn't have computors in 1985). And then she wants to make damn sure that I know exactly how hard it is to go to work for an actual law firm, and how hard it would be to leave your children (well, not that she has a whole lot of experience. She left the night before she had me and didn't go back).

And I'm not crazy enough to think that it's all pretty offices and make-out nooks like on Boston Legal, but everytime I bring it up she gets this pained look on her face like, "You so do not want this." I'm probably the only person who could g0 to law school and still spite her parents. :p

So now I'm going to go minor in art history and die alone and poor because I was talked out of law school. Humph.

Ooh, also speaking of lawyers and the like, I worked last night and there was this professional singles group meeting (please, do not ask me to describe it. I'm still scared that it's going to be me one day). So this woman (a retired doctor) who talks to me constantly came up and honestly said that she just could not believe it, but not a single one of those people, except for her, had a professional degree, and therefore were all masqurading. "They're all working class." Jaw, meet floor. Yes, she really said "working class". I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were in eighteenth century London. I was so hoping that the non-professionals could not hear her.

This is the woman who the other day told me that she solved the discussion she and her husband were having about whether or not to have a baby by having her tubes tied without telling him. Mmm-hmm. Yeah, that'll work.

Just one link for you today---but it's a good one, I promise. It takes a special kind of stupid to be able to sever a ligament accidentally. Obviously, one of his talents isn't shaving.