Thanks to you, I have officially joined the "retarded ovaries club" at school. No, really. We have one. It's unofficial and maybe a little bit fictional, but I think "retarded ovary syndrome" runs in the tap water at HLG. Just one more way the institution is severely trying to screw me over.
So, in essence, my college probably made you retarded. But I digress.
I really can't deal with retarded ovaries right now, ok? I just can't. I'm under enormous pressure and increasing fear that I'm not going to make it, that I've forgotten something, that I didn't babysit the registrar enough, and they are sitting there waiting with a lit match dangerously close to my diploma. My back muscles are rigid enough, I really just can't handle you making them feel like they are going to rip in half every 6-8 months. That's right. If you keep going all psycho retarded ovaries on me, I might just snap. And then my friends will have to be coaxing me down from the roof of Nun Cook, prying the cold, dead, cabbage patch doll from my hands (that just happens to be on fire) and making sure that I don't eat my hair. And it will be all your fault.
Ok. That's not fair. You can't really help being retarded, what with the probable cysts that are initiating an all out invasion--and being quite rude about it, to boot. You were just doing your job when these uneducated cysts (who probably only got the job because they slept with the office manager) started moving in on your cubicle space. Probably. We're still not sure yet.
And I know you're trying. I know. I'm sorry. But I was always really scared that I would become the old boring cat lady with a mustache. Seriously. The extra eyebrows and slightly darker random upper lip is severely freaking me out, and my readers are probably cringing due to all the excess information. can we try to do something about this? Please?
Thanks.
--Melinda
