I always held to the belief that monsters waited until Halloween to show up, but I was wrong: as it turns out, horror is more of an everyday occurance than I thought. Yes, that's right, I'm applying for graduate school. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate applying for things, mostly because I harbor a deep belief that I should just be accepted based on some innate ability that will become painfully obvious to those assigned to discover how incredible I am, both as a human being and student. Most of that is a lie, all except the belief in immediate acceptance, that is.

Don't get me wrong, I respect the idea of an application process (there has to be some vetting, even if it is theoretical), but after spending four years in college and four days with the Fulbright crowd in Berlin, I have to say that, well.....you've all talked to people at college parties, you know what I mean. But maybe I'm just being unreasonable. I mean, who doesn't like trying to fit 1) My formal and informal experience with the German language, including visitations and time abroad, 2) Reasons for wanting to study said language, 3) How I heard of the program, 4) And my career plans in two hundred words. For you word processor neophytes out there, that's less than a page. Happy hyper-concise writing time! And it wouldn't be all that bad if my word processor HAD A WORD COUNT FEATURE! Good times.

But the pain will all be over soon, and then, hopefully, I'll be in grad school, waiting for my next application opportunity to come around. Ah, the rhythms of an early 21st century nerd. Take that solar calender!

Writer's block sucks. Seriously. I've been wallowing in a particularly vile cistern of rancid metaphors and aborted paragraphs for about a month now, a workout which you can thank for my month long absence, but I think I just might have put most of it behind me. Someone knock on wood for me, please. No, really, I'm not kidding. Do it.

I finished the first story in my German not-so-much-a-children's-book-anymore children's book about a month ago, and since then I have had a fantastic run of nothing. Believe me, it's a fun feeling, kind of like dispair, only more impotent. I don't want to sound like a pretentious, self-aggrandizing jerk (ie Me), but not being able to write ANYTHING is like having a limb cut off. It's completely disarming. God, I'm good! Christ! Seriously, though: it's like a part of you is cut out, sealed up, and placed just out of arm's reach. It drives you mad, though most of the time you don't know that's what's put you in such a foul mood until it's over. It's really fun. You should try it sometime. Or punch yourself in the kidney. Either one works. Hot damn, it feels good to be able to do this again! (Knock on wood).