Resurfacing

I am finally getting ready to mail my goddamn motherf*cking mustard-spitting yak-quoting polyglutenous applications off to various and sundry rejection panels---wait, I mean admissions offices---and it feels roughly akin to waking up in an ice cube--filled bathtub in a French Quarter hotel with my kidneys missing. Only, in this case, I've spent the past six months cutting apart and reattaching my kidneys in the attempt to make them more appealing to the organ thief.

More soon, as the ice of pre-application tedium defrosts into the soft mushiness of post-application normalcy.