I don’t need a platypus.

Note: I had to Google “platypus” to find out how to spell it. Shh. Don’t tell any graduate schools.

I know that God likes to laugh because during horrible weeks when you’d really prefer to just crawl back into bed, preferably with a very large bottle of Maker’s Mark (Or whatever turns your crank; I’m fond of the very unladylike bourbon myself.), and completely ignore stuff going on around you like school and your thesis and the fact that you don’t know where you’ll be in September and why hello there, PET scan, you haven’t made me nauseous with fear in a few months, good to see you again! you get pimples the likes of which you haven’t seen since high school when Ugly Betty premiered.

(Okay. So it wasn’t that long ago. The young can be stressed, too.)

Note the Second: That was one sentence. Shh. Don’t tell any graduate schools.

I suppose you could think that God is cruel. But I’m an optimist. (Stop laughing.)

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to go steal my little brother’s Proactiv.


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