I’m quitting school.
It was in the middle of a three-page paper. My 36th of the semester, actually. That’s when I decided.
I don’t have time for this anymore. There are mountains to climb, cheesecakes to bake, reality TV marathons to absorb.
I know this quitting feeling well. For two years before I was married, I worked at a local credit union call center. Every day after school, I would spend five hours telling angry 86-year-old women named Leverna how a debit card worked, and every day, I would say to myself, “Self, this job is turning you into human oatmeal. After 400 phone calls from people ordering personal checks with pictures of puppies on them, you are now a stagnant pool of hot oats. The unflavored kind. You should quit and do anything else. I mean anything. Do not rule out things that are illegal.”
This week, I have that oatmeal feeling again. So, I’m quitting. That’s it. I’m moving to the mountains to raise sheep and write poetry and maybe scrape together a meager living by carving caricatures of famous people out of dried sheep dung and selling them at a roadside stand.
I’m just spit-balling here, of course. But anything would be better than another dang three-page paper.
OK, OK, I’m not really dropping out. That ship has sailed. At this point, it would be easier to just finish than to explain to my mom why I’m making a living writing limericks for wedding announcements (another idea).
But there’s so much more to do than write papers. Why, I still have to . . .
. . . meet Ben and Jerry.
. . . spend a day sitting on a bench in Disneyland and people-watching.
. . . eat my weight in chili cheese fries.
. . . get ridiculously rich, purchase the contract of an NBA player, and make him teach a seventh-grade English class. Get them dangling participles outta my house! Uh! (Swatting motion, followed by a wagging finger.)
. . . get tan. Specifically, tanner than Ron Paul.
. . . try out for American Idol by singing the theme song from Step by Step. Also, by playing an accordion.
. . . hang out with the hobbits from The Lord of the Rings. Well, not Sam. Just the fun ones.
. . . create an animated film based on the life of Chief Justice John Marshall, only all the characters are voiced by Betty White. Also, it wins the Best Picture Oscar.
. . . have a ton of kids (preferably attractive ones), then start a family band, which gets really famous.
. . . dissolve family band very publicly, then acquire book/movie rights. Exploit as needed.
. . . earn the 15th roster spot on the Utah Jazz. I have two legs, a willing heart and six very hard fouls to give. Seriously, I will chew through Kobe’s kneecap if it means getting into one game.
. . . wear a new pair of socks every day for the rest of my life.
. . . move to the mountains and raise sheep. I’m still a little serious about that one.
. . . buy everything in Costco and return it the next day, just to see if they would take it back. I think they would.
. . . write a book.
. . . or just pretend to have written a book, and “work” on my laptop in public all day at Starbucks. Maybe hand out autographed “originals” (really just copies of Call of the Wild with different dust jackets).
. . . meet Bill Murray and apologize for all the other huge dorks he’s had to hear misquote lines from Groundhog Day.
. . . see a major league baseball game in every stadium. Spill chewed-up Milk Duds all over Boston’s Fenway Park. Go Rockies!
. . . spend a summer in Hawaii.
. . . spend a winter in Siberia before I spend a summer in Hawaii, just so I really appreciate it.
. . . create a reality TV show called Worst™, where the only people who are allowed to compete are those who were contestants on other reality shows, but were also the first people kicked off in the very first episode of those shows. Of course, Worst™ would only have one episode.
. . . ride in a helicopter. To your mother’s house.
. . . sleep in just once without getting a phone call.
. . . write a three-page paper on where I think three-page papers belong.