School

Well, I've done it. I've finished all my classes for my undergrad. Provided I passed all of my exams, I'll soon be a swingin' bachelor of science. I'd love to see the McGill sweatshirt for my full program. BIG LETTERS: McGill, Subtitle: Faculty Program in Biology and Mathematics, Sub-subtitle: Minor in Computational Molecular Biology.

Oh well.

So I've also been accepted into graduate school, and get this: I come home, find a big envelope on my bed that's torn open on top. So I think to myself: "Hey, what the hell? Who's opening my mail? Did my mother get too excited about my acceptance and open the mail for me?" No. I get the letters out and it turns out that they had been slightly chewed by my mother's dog Buffy, an irritating, hyperactive little west-highland terrier that urinates everywhere and chews up everything in sight. I'm still pissed about that. I mean sure, I'll never really have a use for this letter in the long run, but when I look at it, it just makes me hate my mother's dog more and more. But that's also due to the resentment I feel toward that horrid hound.

But that's a whole other story.

So yeah, I really hope I passed Stochastic Processes. If I don't I'll have to go speak with the professor, as I am sure I can argue my way through the exam—if I don't pass, I don't get my BSc; if I don't get my BSc, I don't get into grad school; if I don't get into grad school I won't have any clue what the hell I'm going to do next year.

I can't wait until the stress of not knowing is gone.