Most of the public assumes I don’t work at all during the summer. They’re absolutely right. I haven’t gone to campus since June 8. For the past two months, I’ve been starting my day with a pitcher of frozen margaritas on my back patio. I have limes flown in from Cuba every morning. After my third margarita, I go for a swim. All professors have Olympic-size pools in their yards. People tell you it’s dangerous to swim while drunk. But I’m a professor. I’m smarter than you, so me drunk is more like an average person sober.
Next, I have sex with my pool boy. I don’t know his name, but I call him Jacques because he’s very tan and muscular. Our foreplay involves him giving me an hour-long massage while I read Foucault in the original French. Then we make love in my home spa. Our love leads us upstairs to my boudoir, with French windows that offer an excellent view of the lake. Our love is slow, but intense. Jacques has scars on his back that he calls mementos of me.
I’ve sat next to you in this faculty meeting for about 30 minutes now, and I can’t stop staring at your face. Drinking in your beauty this last half hour has been an utter delight. When the department chair cracked that awful joke a few minutes ago, you rolled your eyes and smirked at me. Our eyes met briefly, then you turned away, touching your hair. My heart stopped, and so did time. We could’ve been a commercial for some celebrity’s fashion line, or maybe an exotic fragrance.
I’ve enjoyed this meeting immensely. To be honest, it’s the closest I’ve ever come to a date with a fashion model. Seriously, your beauty almost makes me uncomfortable. Not just today, either. Simply inhabiting the same space as you gives me a serious endorphin rush, as well as what my students refer to as “a sick boner.” That’s an apt phrase.
Nothing hurts more than loving someone who doesn’t love you back. And yet, nothing makes for bigger laughs. That’s the whole premise of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, after all. I mean it hurts emotionally, of course, unlike gunshot wounds, which hurt physically. Anyway, I’ve lived on both ends of unrequited love. In some ways, it helped me learn more about relationships, and myself. So, who did I love and when? His name was Michael, and he looked like a cross between Hugh Jackman and James dean. We met during my first year of college, in a backpacking club.
You’re wondering how I fell for him. Over the years, I’ve learned it had almost everything to do with me. He was incredibly attractive, funny, smart, and we also got along well. But as he explained, pretty clearly during our first hiking trip, he only dated Christians. Seriously, this guy wouldn’t even listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers. If you know me, my life’s a living NIN album. And yet, being off limits made Michael all that more enticing. That was the first time I’d come across someone I couldn’t have. Sure, I’d been deprived of things before, but I was used to having my pick of people for various purposes. Having the tables turned drove me to the brink of temporary insanity.
Recently, my spouse and I moved into a new apartment. Our new neighbor showed up randomly that weekend. He’d brought us milk and some snacks. He was so polite about the whole thing. Huge red flag. I became suspicious immediately. Bae chatted with him a few minutes while I fought back rage tears over my broken desk. The movers we hired had done a shit job with our cheap ass furniture from Target. See, that made sense in my book: you hire someone, and they fuck up your stuff. Someone bringing me free milk? This scenario held no place in my worldview.
Even now, I still look at the guy funny when we pass in the stairs. What am I supposed to say? “Hey, that was some great fucking milk the other month. Best milk I ever had. So tell me, do you always go whole, or was that just a splurge for us?”
“I am twenty-three years old and I am afraid of what my future will bring. I wish I could say I found an amazing career or became self-made prodigy or social media star but I haven’t.”…
Source: What It’s Like To Be 23 With A Useless Degree | Thought Catalog
You’re not trying hard enough. You make stupid decisions. You take too many risks. That’s the voice in my head sometimes. Okay, a lot.
Life would be easy if I had moderate expectations of myself. I worked for years to become a professor, and now I’m an associate department chair. My own parents did everything they could to dissuade me from majoring in English. My friends and relatives mocked me for going into a PhD program. Now, I make just as much money as my dad did at my age. The problem? That salary doesn’t quite go far enough when you have student loans. I’m trying to solve this problem.
People envy me. And yet here I am, pissed off that I’m only getting 200-400 hits on my blog every day, with occasional spikes of 500. I just paid $300 in taxes. It’s the first time in my life I’ve never received a refund. I’m in a different tax bracket now. It seems unfair. I have some money saved up. It’s hardly enough to make a down payment on a house. Barely enough to raise a child. I’m not even sure I want kids. My spouse does. So I’m sorta stuck here.