Grad school appeals to me. I think that I romanticize it, imagining myself reading diligently and often, researching literary criticism, writing my thesis.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I never thought that getting an MA in Lit would be something I wanted to do, let alone for no other reason than I want to see if I can do it.  I want to see if I can handle working full time, reading full time, and writing full time. I want people to see that I’m smart, and to know that I can write something that means more than a promotional brochure. I wish that I would have realized in college that I needed to work harder to get into grad school, but thanks to a professor that didn’t like me, I’m not sure that I would get in.

But there would be the intellectual discussion about BOOKS, something that I don’t get anywhere else other than class, because not many people that I know like to read real books for fun (real meaning a book not meant for the general population, ie James Patterson, sorry Jess!). I miss it. I miss the dissecting and the discourse. I miss reading. Maybe this weekend I’ll try to start reading, study for the GRE, and pray that I get a high enough score to get into grad school.  Then, with my MA, I can give my literary snobbishness some validity.