Editor’s Note: All threats of physical violence to imaginary blog audience are for comedic effect only. The author of Pan Kisses Kafka does not actually want to kill anyone. Yet. Seriously, back the fuck off.
Taking your qualifying exams is a lot like being pregnant (so I am imagining, having never been pregnant)–you spend about nine months wanting to barf all the time, overpreparing, staying up nights with paranoid fantasies, being sure you are the only person in the entire universe who has ever had such an experience, and, lest we forget, being filled much of the time with an uncontrollable homicidal mania. Sometimes I think the only thing stopping me from going on a rampage is my Victorian-style squeamishness. I can’t even get an IV of salt water without going all woozy, so I can’t imagine I’d be able to go through with slicing someone’s jugular vein (plus, you know, jail). A punching-everyone-in-the-face rampage? Slightly more likely, but luckily again for everyone I know, I have terrible aim and I hit like, well, a girl (just ask my brother). A yelling rampage? Please, I’ve already had three this week. Just ask my friend Erin, though don’t ask her right now, because she seems to have caught a case of homicidal mania herself. The funniest thing is, of course, that qualifying exams, like the squeezing out of babies, are successfully survived every single day, by people a whole lot dumber than either Erin or me (and yes, "me" is correct, assholes, "than" is a preposition; fuck off–you want a piece of this? I will FUCKING KILL YOU. Ahem). What makes me so fucking special that my qualifying exams will be any harder than those of some idiot from Poli Sci? If some 89-IQ in a trailer park in Kenosha can crap out a baby, can it really be so difficult for frigid pointy-shod highlight-having ad reps in Manhattan to do it too? Not that I am the intellectual equivalent of a frigid pointy-shod–seriously, stop laughing right now or I will FUCKING KILL YOU and everyone you know! Ahem. Anyway, I have decided that rather than attempt to remedy my case of homicidal mania, I should instead treat it as an intellectual affectation, which every academic worth his/her salt develops. Whether it’s closing your eyes while you talk, punctuating every other sentence with the phrase "so to speak," fondling one’s beard, adopting a Madonna-style "mid-Atlantic" accent (last I heard "mid-Atlantic" meant "hypothermic shark food" but I’m no expert) or pointing your pinky finger at the ceiling, we all have to have an affectation by the time we go ABD or nobody will every accept us to the MLA, so I figure "homicidal mania" will be mine. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go kill everyone. METAPHORICALLY. But seriously, back the fuck off.