"Lying in bed would be an altogether perfect and supreme experience if only one had a colored pencil long enough to draw on the ceiling." -G.K. Chesterton
Day eleven. Last (real) day of work for the semester.
Appropriately, we're de-installing (not un!) all the exhibits. I feel like there's a metaphor in here somewhere, but I'm all English major-ed out for the semester.
The process is simple enough. Take down piece. Remove nail. Spackle. Paint. Lather, rinse, repeat. The Lockhart Gallery is done in an hour.
Corinne and I get to talking about grad school and internships and I feel that old familiar panicky feeling of "CRAP! What if I don't get health benefits! DRAT! What if I'm stuck in a job I hate with thousands of dollars of student loans! POOIE!" By the end of our conversation, I have resolved to marry Prince Harry, get him to bribe the Met into letting me hang out there forever, and maybe sleep in that French bed they have kickin' around. This definitely seems more feasible than grad school and getting an internship this summer.
Let me repeat: CRAP! DRAT! POOIE!
There is, however, a tiny ray of hope. Dad plays tennis with a curator at the Met who has some sway with the Intern Advisory Board. I will almost certainly not get that internship. But my chances have gone from none to slim. I have fingernail in the door, so to speak.
Being an almost-adult is stressful.
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