pilot strike, part deux

So the whole strike thing’s over, in an anticlimactic sort of way – rather in the vein of knowing all along that Rosebud is just a damn sled anyway. Yeah, yeah, things are fine. This snark was not so much a boojum as a highly exploited opportunity for drama in its most rampant, rumor-flinging form. I have to admit, though I am relieved to be keeping my cat in kibble for the foreseeable future, I’m slightly disappointed. If I’d been furloughed, I’d have been forced to pursue other avenues, while simultaneously being eligible for unemployment pay. I’d begun fantasizing about a master’s degree, the scintillating world of academia, student loans, the smirk I could sport whenever I told anyone I was attending grad school. I’m beginning to suspect that my greatest aspiration in life is just to attain more essentially useless knowledge.

I’ve decided to quit bemoaning the fact that I’ve been relationship-less for approximately two years, and content myself with being surrounded by books, cats and booze. I have this lovely vision of being some kooky, liberal, bike-riding college professor who carries term papers in her bike basket and extrapolates on the mysticism of Borges over coffee. Though I have to admit, part of this portrait would be to go home at night to someone who tolerates my idiosyncrasies in a bemused sort of way.

I’ve got coworkers who are furthering their educations via online courses and whatnot, but for me, I think that’d be like fat-free ice cream, not quite meeting the bare requirements of satisfying. When I go back to school, I’d like to really throw myself into it, and reap the benefits of a classroom setting. I like being surrounded by creative people, but right now I worry that I’m in danger of just being surrounded by (and becoming) creative types who never get it together to realize a vision. Seriously - the iceman cometh. I need a plan.