**Housekeeping: Somehow yesterday’s post was up all day with the wrong ending. I think it was fine in Google Reader, but if you read it here on the website and were a bit confused, I do apologise. It’s all sorted out now, so feel free to try again. Really, the ending was the best part. If I do say so myself. Which I do. Obviously.

**Also: Come back tonight (or any time throughout the weekend) with your Saturday Steals. If you want.

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When I look back on my life—

No, too sappy.

I am at a place where—

I am at a place? What does that even mean? C’mon, Camille, say it like you eat it.

All right, fine. It’s like this:

I don’t like school. I am good at school, but I don’t like it. The whole university scene, the bureaucracy, the formulaic research essays, the MLA format, the group work…it all really grates on my nerves.

I’ve always said the first thing I’d do when I graduate would be to flip university the bird and never go back.

Well, it looks like I might still flip it the bird.

But I can no longer say with surety that I’ll never go back.

I’m thinking about getting a Master’s degree in English. And maybe even teaching at the University level after that.

Why not just scratch your eyeballs out with a #2 pencil, Camille?

I know, it’s ridiculous. I already swore I’d never change my major but then I did. And then I swore I’d never take summer school but then I did. And then I swore I’d never go further than a Bachelor’s, but here’s the thing:

As it stands now, getting a Bachelor’s degree in English doesn’t do much for me. Oh sure, I could write, but let’s face it, I’m not tragic enough of a substance addict to be a truly successful writer (unless you count DDP, which I hope you don’t because if that were the case I’d need a rehab clinic of Lohan proportions, stat). Plus, I’ve submitted lots of my writing to lots of publications during the last twelve months, and none of them have been accepted except one (but that was lame).

So I’m giving up.

I’ve failed in life by the age of 23. (But then, I always did want to be a prodigy: World’s Youngest Failure, that’s me.)

And in lieu of that failure, I’ve decided to set my sights to more realistic goals.

As part of the requirements for the summer school class I just completed yesterday (hooray), I had to give a presentation. I chose to lecture on the role of women in Victorian England. I worked really hard on it. I researched it a lot. I spent hours on my outline. I practiced in the mirror. (I did not practice in the mirror. But I did practice.) I bought cupcakes because I wanted to be the favourite.

And I nailed it. I got 100%. And I kind of enjoyed it, too.

A few weeks later, I met my professor at a downtown café to talk about a different research project (yawn much?), and she spent twenty minutes gushing about how great my presentation was, how natural I looked up there, how I would be a prime candidate for graduate studies, how she would love to follow me through my “career,” how it would be a crime if I didn’t teach at the university level. [Suffice it to say she’s my favourite professor I’ve ever had.]

I left that meeting with an inflated ego and an inkling…

…that maybe…

…I should’ve never said never.

Nothing’s set in stone yet. There are a lot of factors to consider, including but not limited to finances, mental stamina, and my prime procreation years. I don’t have a supervisor or a curriculum vitae or a prayer of an idea for a Freaking Thesis (and yes, from this point forth, any time I refer to the horror of higher education known as a thesis it will be a Freaking Thesis)…

…but I do have an inkling.

And also an enormous load of whites to soak on account of all the pants I’ve crapped just thinking about another two years of school.

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