I had been meaning to post about something else entirely, my mother, possibly, or the fact my hair is falling out (again, God damn it, but lopsidedly, for added humiliation) – ah, PCOS, the gift that doesn’t know when to stop giving – but my train of thought has been irreparably banjaxed for the evening.
I got home eventually. It is cold, it is dark, it is gloomy, work has gone all weird and stressful, I spent the afternoon being lightly traumatised after some poor soul threw up in the, well, in the way, and then we called Housekeeping four times and two hours later no one had come to clean it up and just… So not good. I was feeling a little glum.
There was a large parcel waiting for me at home, though. All over official university stamps. What? said I, picking it up. What do they want now? Is it perhaps a pop-up bailiff wanting their degree back?
Ah, I added, opening it. It’s my dissertation. Oh yippee. The dissertation I wrote in a state of teeth-grinding anxiety and grief, during the Shitty Summer just after I lost Pikaia. That was too short, and that I finished at four in the morning the day I was supposed to hand it in. Oh great. This is going to be so good for my ego. I glanced at the cover sheet.
I think I shrieked ‘oh my fucking GOD!’
‘What?’ cried H, jumping out of his skin. I waved it at him. He looked. He threw his arms about me. I burst into tears and started sobbing something incoherent about it not being possible, it couldn’t be possible, fucking hell, etc.
I think there must have been some major mistake. I was in such a state when I wrote it, I nearly typed ‘I am a fish’ 500 times, topped it off with an inky palm-print, handed it in with a triple salute and slid to the floor unconscious right there in the departmental office.
Nevertheless, they will have to pry that A+ from my cold dead hands.