Going back to where we left off, the Pr*nc*ton Review thing was a mindfuck in every possible way. Suffice it to say that the narrative included both a person I�d never met before seeming to have picked me at random to humiliate and destroy and me, humiliated and destroyed, boo-hoo-hooing into my cell phone afterwards; it was a very full evening even before I started hitting the bourbon. Nils, in the spirit of corporate spying, the whole ugly story is yours if you want it � let me know. If I had any money, I�d be buying stock in you guys. Here�s how I�m rationalizing fiascoville: I�m a good teacher and I would have been good at the job and probably liked it a lot. But if I were doing it, I�d have to rationalize something else, and that would be the fact that I was contributing to the phenomenon, by means of my skills or talents or whatever, of rich kids acquiring even more advantages than they already have w/r/t standardized tests and hence college admissions. There�s a reason I don�t apply for jobs at St*rbucks or Am*zon, either (OK, in the latter example there are two), and in each case it has to do with some aspect of the good old personal-as-political, and like I think my integrity rebounds for keeping that part of me untamperable-with I believe I�m ultimately better off having nothing to do with such an insert-censorious-adjectives-here organization as the Review. Not to get all communist on you or anything. I cried, I drank, I�m over it. Also, not going through their training means that my January and February Saturdays are wide open, and this means that I can apply to take the classes at the UW that are part of that tech writing and editing certification; did I write about that here? About which whole project I don�t think I need to note that I have mixed feelings, but I�m trying to focus on how if I were ever able to parlay said coursework into a writing or editing job like I used to do before the tech bust instead of the administrative temp monkey-shit that has been my post-bust lot, then I will make up for the class tuition with my first year�s salary. Also on how it�s often advisable for the confused simply to pick a lane and stay in it. There�s no way I can begin to think about applying to any of the master�s programs I�m interested in for at least two years, which means that Meantime is a concept it behooves me to get cozy with, and to exploit. Allegedly the certificate courses also offer networking and job-placement assistance, and I feel like even if all I�m paying for is the opportunity to get in front of, argh, an actual in-person person, the opportunity for a good-teacher, good-employee, good-golly human connection, then it will have been worth it. Note: acceptance to the classes is not a foregone conclusion. There are only two seats available, and the program coordinator told me that there will be competition for them. But I have the GPA and the resum� and, if I may say so, the ability to come up with a passable personal statement, and I hope my pals will also be crossing their fingers for me. The application�s due at the beginning of December. In late-breaking news, Steve is semi-agitating for me to consider a move away from Seattle soon, ideally to (a) Germany or (b) a place that promises better employment opportunities for both of us. If I had a guaranteed non-monkey job lined up, I�d do it in a heartbeat (and for all my big fed-up talk lately, it was sobering to realize this, that I had 100% meant it all along), but the fact is I�ve become so pessimistic that I fixate on a hypothetical scenario in which he gets a job somewhere else that is supposed to be less of a wasteland than Seattle as far as my so-called field is concerned, Miami say, and we go there and it turns out that nope, I�m still only eligible to scrape the bottom of the temp-agency barrel. Then what? Then I am in the same old situation of having no job and no prospects but I am in a city where I don�t know my way around and don�t know anyone. Some of my friends are so cheap, for instance, that I won�t go out to dinner with them because I don�t want to have an aneurysm when they propose a ten percent tip, but they are my friends. They are mine, and they are here. Germany almost looks more appealing � I�d have to do the equivalent of work as an under-the-table bagger in a supermarket for a few years until I had the language and I�d be at risk of being deported, but at least it would be an adventure, and one with socialized medicine. If I get into the classes, I want to stay in that lane until I�ve completed the coursework for a certificate, which would be in about a year�s time. But after that, I�ll be open to suggestions, itineraries, destinations.

Then last Saturday I went to a 30th birthday party that turned out to be one of those miraculous nights where I drank for hours (x = 6, we closed down the bar) and woke up hangover-free. But this is not even the best part: at the party I met some 25-year-olds who upon learning how old I am seemed shocked, said that they would have guessed me for 23, and demanded details of my moisturizing regimen. Even the guy! I was so grateful and also so drunk that I told them everything, including the part I usually do not reveal, my personal version of the Colonel�s secret recipe. The next day I was driving around on some grocery errands, remembering my triumph and feeling very good about myself, and I glanced vainly into my rearview mirror while giving myself permission to appreciate what I�d see, and what did I see? From that unaccustomed angle, a wellspring, just back of my bangs, of white hair � like an albino spider sitting contentedly on top of my head. Ha ha. Also I should add that the Korean lady who scrubbed me would disagree with the bar kids� estimation. The dead skin came off of me like fat rolls of toejam, sorry but it�s true, and again I got the lecture about applying some more conscientiousness to my exfoliation routine. I think I need a new scrubby thing, or to go to remedial classes. The scrubber�s basic but functional English had a charming quirk � instead of saying that I was a good girl, this I mean for not whimpering while she vanquished my epidermis, she kept saying, "Oh, pretty girl! You�re such a pretty girl." I�m having a little problem with "good" and the gym lately � like, since I have all this free time I�ve been going pretty regularly, almost every weekday, and staying so long that early this week I put a two-hour limit on myself for the sake of self-preservation. (On the other hand: I�ve lost almost six pounds and, no brag, my thighs are not looking too shabby either.) When I leave the gym, spacey and with my exhausted muscles shaking, in the same way as I let myself look in the mirror last Sunday I allow myself � vaguely � a compliment or a moment of high self-regard or, fuck, a good grade, I tell myself something along the lines of good. But you see, this "good" implies bad, and not only am I eventually going to be in a position where ten hours a week at the gym is unfeasible, I don�t like the idea of ever having to call myself bad upon leaving the gym because after all I have just been to the gym and done at least something. Once again I am coming up against my constitutional aversion to moderation + masochism + insanely and unsustainable high standards, and I know from experience and deep in my regretful but unstoppable heart that this can only end with a hard crash of some kind or other. When and how I don�t know. In the meantime, I guess, you can find me on the cardio machines, trying to break my per-mile average, milking it while I can.