Last night, I decided that I would quit school.
After tossing and turning all night, I managed to gleam an hour of sleep, just enough to keep my eyes open enough to smear on the eyeliner. I wrestled with my sorry excuse of a synthetic hair wig, before giving up on its impossibly tangled tresses.
The cat preened and purred, then frantically attacked a lone q-tip, when I wouldn’t acknowledge him. I finally walked out the door, tripping over an overly attached feline, countless empty water bottles and my uninspired shoe collection.
Just another Monday.
And yet not! I down my morning coffee, check my email through squinty, sleepy eyes, and send off my voluntary withdrawal form to my university.
If you’re wondering what prompted this seemingly rash decision, let me provide some context. I had applied for a Master’s in Education program at an Ontario university, offered online, so I could continue to work in South Korea. Unfortunately, my program of choice (Comparative and International Education) was changed from hybrid onsite/online to fully online, after I had applied, so my application was rejected. Nevertheless, the school offered me a spot in a new fully online M.Ed program (Leadership in Education Policy) instead. I took it without much thought, eager to be given a second change to pursue my graduate studies. Little did I know, this would be the most abysmally boring program in existence. The past month has been a veritable exercise in perseverance. I have never had so much difficulty to be invested or even mildly interested in a subject matter. I suppose I should have realized this before accepting, but I had my yay-graduate-school blinkers on.
As my step-mom put it, “I was rather surprised that you decided to pursue a degree in a subject that has nothing at all in common with your interests”.
So here I am, typing away. Writing. Putting finger-shoved electronic letters to a crisp white screen. Words. A written kind of inkblot. I wonder what others will see?