100

Of note:

- I am so tired now that I am home... My brain feels like cow dung--all flattened and smelly. I would say useless too, but cow dung makes good fertilizer, yes?

- I will have office hours. Granted, my "office" is a cubicle to be shared with two other poets tucked in the corner of the third floor of Lind Hall, but office hours nonetheless. I'll also have a syllabus that deserves to be called a syllabus (in high school, they're just a list of expectations, you see--and yes, Emily, I know that's not entirely true) and a little slot that is my mailbox on campus. As in, I belong. As in, I've got the secret handshake down.

- There is a married couple entering the MFA program: the husband is in fiction, the wife in non-fiction. A truth telling contest for them tomorrow!

- There are only four poets. There are only thirteen students total. There were hundreds that applied. Something must have gotten fumbled in the paperwork. How did I get here? They keep telling us how competitive the program is, and I remember how tough it was before, and I remember that stomach liquifying spring, but what I don't understand is how I got to be where I am.

- I need to write that review of Nin Andrews' Sleeping With Houdini before she becomes a visiting poet; if I wait, I think it would be a conflict of interest, and I've already written my notes. (And as you all know, writing notes is half the battle. OK, the only battle, really, is getting past that first paragraph.)

- My homework tonight is to comment on and grade three student essays. I must admit, I have to remind myself: office hours, office hours, office hours, in order to not forget that I am indeed an MFA student and not a high school teacher again.

- In three years, I'll be able to put in my bio: "MSK received her MFA from the University of Minnesota." (In a few weeks, when the paperwork has gone through, I'll also be able to say I got my M.Ed from there too.)