grad school

One of the many things my brother Mason and I had in common was the ever-present, “well, there’s always grad school” plan for the future. This is the plan that pops up every year or two when the job is getting you down and life has settled into a comfortable rut and maybe the summer heat makes you long for a cool, green New England campus. Or maybe you’re so fucking over it that you just want to run down the street in your underwear screaming as loud as you can. (By “you” I mean “me.”)

Now that he’s gone, I intend to carry on the tradition by myself. I realized last night that my surprisingly high GRE score will turn five in January. Most programs request a score that is five years old at most, so I either have to apply and get into a program at the end of this year, or I’ll have to retake the GRE. It wasn’t that painful. My fear is that I won’t score as high, which will confirm my fears that a) the first score was an anomaly and b) I am getting dumber as the years go by.

I applied to one MFA writing program four years ago (and didn’t get in). They are pretty competitive, and the play I submitted as my writing sample sucked. I thought it was good at the time, what can I say. It was the most overwrought thing I’ve ever written, and it shan’t see the light of day. If I had a bird, I would line the bird’s cage with the script. In fact, I think I will go buy a bird just so I can watch the bird poop on it. Then I will barbecue the bird and eat it with a side of broccoli.