Dear Mail People:

I am currently enrolled in distance education so that I can up my degree and hopefully one day get a Master's. Mail is a big part of distance courses. Like, they send you your stuff in the mail. And when you're expecting stuff in the mail, you check the mail and expect your parcels to NOT GET LOST IN THE MAIL.

And then, when your parcels do get LOST IN THE MAIL, you feel anger and rage and you want to go around having a mammoth temper tantrum because your shit has been LOST IN THE MAIL.

And when you try to contact someone about your stuff that is LOST IN THE MAIL, it would be nice to be able to talk to someone about the specific things that have been LOST IN THE MAIL. Except that this doesn't often happen in CowTown, and we are very small, and there is no specific department devoted to important educational materials that have been LOST IN THE MAIL.

Please, please Dear Mail People, find the things that have been LOST IN THE MAIL so that I can finish my course and not have to beg for an extension.

Dear World....

Dear World,

I have finished university.

I wrote my last exam EVER today.

I'm sure you're sick of hearing about it.

My time here has been wonderful. I met some incredibly people, I lived in Hell, I lived in a building that made the Berry Queen say "You let me bring my ten year old SON here?" as she walked into the foyer and smelled the smell of drugs and filth.

I lost my mind a couple times. I dated one guy seriously and a number of guys not so seriously. (Come on now. You all remember the guy from first year who told me that if I wouldn't sleep with him, he would dump me? And then I told him that was just fine? And then he dumped me? I really still laugh about that sometimes because what could be funnier than a real-life episode of Degrassi Junior High?). I have gotten drunk off my ass a few times, and once I even landed on my ass in a puddle beside a taxi. And Mal? My dear friend? Didn't even help me up. She just stood on the sidewalk laughing at my sorry self trying to stand up out of a puddle. I, personally, blame the hooker boots.

Sometimes I think about what I expected when I came to university. I have to laugh about that now, because it was so silly. I was sure that I would be surrounded by brainiacs who knew more about Shakespeare and Dickens than I could ever hope to know. I was sure that I would be forever embedded within a group of people who would make me feel forever inferior with my lack of awareness as to Darwinian concepts, and who would make me feel forever inferior when they spoke of Marx.

I've yet to encounter someone who speaks of Marx and Darwin with any sort of authority whatsoever.

But, I did have a grand time. I learned how to drink beer, I learned what to do when locked out of one's apartment, I learned that calling your mother in hysterics three times in one week IS NOT A WEAKNESS.

Regardless of what I learned, I am proud of me. I never thought that I would make it through this last year. In all the bullshit that has happened, I certainly didn't think that I would make it out alive or with much left to give.

I'm going home in a few short days. I can't wait to go home. I can't wait to go back to the country where I can give everyone I love all I have to give, where I can pour out my heart and soul in whatever I want to pour it into.

This world is now mine for the owning.

AND I WILL OWN IT.

Toonses

To the assinine fuckwits who run my school...

Dear Evil Institution Who Insists on Sending Me Correspondence in a Language I Don't Understand,

Our time together has now come to a close. I officially just finished my last ever university exam, and I think I rocked it, thankyouverymuch.

I will start off by saying that I hate you, Institution, for being so corporate and completely unhelpful with everything I have tried to attain. I'll never forget all the memories I made while attending, all the screechy and incoherent phone calls I made home to my mother with a four kilogram bag of peanut M&Ms in hand.

Oh, the good old days. Remember the time I went to one of your student advisors unsure of what I wanted to do with my degree? And she looked at me blankly and told me to go to another school? And when I asked her what they could offer me, she continued looking at me blankly until her phone rang and I just left?

Remember the time you gave me a doctor who tried to kill me? Remember her, that nice little lady who said helpful things like "You should take more of this drug. I don't understand why it's not working, either. But here, take more." Remember her?

How about the best time of all, when during my second year, you sent me an email IN A LANGUAGE I DO NOT UNDERSTAND telling me that Whoops! Two years of my life have passed by and suddenly, for some reason, you are no longer going to give me a diploma that says Sociology on it! You're just going to give me a general something or other instead. SOMETIMES YOU MAKE ME LAUGH SO HARD THAT I WANT TO IMPALE MYSELF ON LIGHTING RODS. DURING A THUNDER STORM.

Don't get me wrong, Evil Institution. I had some really great times while I was there. I met some wonderful people, and had some amazing adventures. In a couple of my classes, I managed to learn some things, and people always thought it was a mixture of insane and interesting when I brought up social issues in relation to farming and rednecks. Oh, and hunting. People always inch away quietly when they're sitting beside a girl in a plaid jacket who announces to an auditorium full of Sociology students that she knows how to work a gun. I have to say that I got quite a few cheap thrills out of that.

I'll always remember the first ice rain I ever made it through in the city, and an attractive young man was walking down the street at the same time I was and when I went to make eye contact, I fell flat on my ass in a puddle. Come on, now. People on their asses in puddles are always funny.

There was also the time when it was my FIRST day of school ever, and the information on my schedule was wrong. I was so cool back then, so stylish and attractive. I had carefully applied the perfect amount of makeup, was carrying the perfect black leather purse and a shoulder bag instead of a lame old backpack. But it was pouring rain and I didn't own an umbrella, so by the time I got to the class that turned out to be the wrong class, I walked into some ind of lecture on the super hotness of guys who take things like Aeronautical Metaphysics of Hard Stuff To Pronouce. And when I walked in, I resembled a drowning raccoon because of the rain-smeared makeup, and my super stylin' leather purse was full of water because it had no zipper. And I was soggy, and my name-brand jeans weighed a ton and I was kind of sweaty and I was staring at all these super hot guys and I knew... I just knew that at that moment, I officially killed any chance I had at marrying any of them. Sigh.

So, You Non-English Corresponding Sweaty Donkey Ball Sucking Make Me Want To Stab Myself In The Face With A Paring Knife Institution.... Let's have a big hug, shall we? I'm done with you. You're done with me. I shall walk across one of your stages this June, I shall shake the hand of someone I'm sure I've never met before now, and we will part ways.

It's been a slice.

Toonses

P.S Since this is probably my last post about you, sorry about all the names I call you on my blog all the time. And sorry to that lady who took my screechy phone call when you told me I couldn't have my degree. And sorry also for bursting into tears in front of that one lady in the Sociology office who refused to speak English to me. And sorry again for the names. Really. I was raised better. You just make it so damn easy. And sorry for tacking on another insult inside an apology for the insults. Really.

In which I apologize for being sucky...

Dear Copernicus,

This weekend has been kind of tough on you. Not only did I rip you from your home in the Big City and stick you in the back of a minivan for an hour with a squalling baby, but when we were done in the van with the squalling baby? I stuck you in a house inhabited by three other cats and six children.

Once we got there, you were reunited with Phinnaeus, who I still love more than you, and who had absolutely no interest in hanging out with you. His brother Spike, on the other hand, couldn't have been more interested if I had rolled you around in steak juice and given you a hat made of chicken breast. I think, my little kitty, that someone has a crush on you. And if you even think about running away with the product of a teenage cat union, who's mother had a name like Chaos and whose original owner was NOT a member of the Catholic Church, you are grounded.

(I'm practicing in case I ever have children. And if you ever want to have a romantic rendezvous in this lifetime, the cat with whom you have this rendezvous MUST have a mother with an original owner who is a member of the Catholic Church. My mother had a rule where we weren't allowed to chew gum, and I'm taking that out on you. Suck it up.)

Not only were you hit on by an overgrown kitten, but there was no food. At first you didn't notice, as you were avoiding the wily advances of Spike. As the night wore on, you seemed to be exploring the house, searching out something. It never occurred to me that you might be searching out food because I just assumed that, well, there would be food about.

But no. It seems that the owners of the house we were staying at didn't think to stock up on cat food before we came over. And because the other cats in the house all have their claws intact and aren't ridiculous city-living cats who depend on neurotic owners to cater to their every whim? They manage to maintain a level of obesity that is absolutely incomprehensible on a diet of field mice and innocent birds. You can't even begin to attain a healthy body weight with an abundance of kitten chow mixed with finicky cat cat food at your disposal. I blame you, Kitty, and no one else but you.

The following day, you seemed to have settled in a little bit more, but by late afternoon, it was time for you to be crammed into your kennel once more and toted all the way back to CowTown in the back of a Saturn Vue. You yowled your discontent and I have to say: I really wish you'd shut up about it when you're unhappy.

Coperni-Kitty, usually when I write to you there is some point about how your existence has made me grow as a person, or how because you are here, my life has been altered in a manner that borders on religious.

There is no such point to this letter. I'm just writing to say that I'm sorry you got saddled with an original owner who not only is not even Catholic, but who insists upon dragging you all over the face of the Earth to be hit on by obnoxious boy cats, to be sniffed and kissed by obnoxious Chocolate Labs, and driven around in a haze of second hand smoke.

Toonses

P.S. I tried to feed you some chicken. And all I have to say is, what the Hell kind of cat doesn't scarf down a chicken breast upon being presented with one? This letter is partly about my deficiency as a cat owner, but I have to point out your deficiency as a cat here. YOU DIDN'T EVEN TASTE IT. Good Grief.

An Open Letter to My Cat....

Dear Coperni-Kitty,

It's been a while since we've danced this dance on my blog. Last fall was a pretty rough time for me, and as a result it was a rough time for you. I'm not one of those psychos who goes around beating her cat when she's pissed -- you know that. However, I am one of those psychos who goes around running to her parents' house when things get unlivable, and as a result, your life became unlivable due to two words: Three Dogs.

Big Brother is away in Afghanistan right now, and his dog Kali has taken up residence at The Ranch. Now, Coperni-Kitty, you and I both know that there is a boundless amount of love in my heart for Kali. She is truly a wonderful dog; however, we both know that she would be much more pleasurable to spend time with if she was on Ritalin. I was sedated for most of my stay at The Ranch, and let me tell you, Kitty, that sedation is heaven. I'll also confide that it entered my head more than once -- more than fifty times, even -- that I might spare the world of her hyper-activity for an afternoon by splitting a dose of Clonapin between myself and her.

Following Christmas break, I was ready to face the world once more. However, I had some things to work with at home. So, to save you hours of grievous time spent in a kennel strapped in to the back seat of a Saturn Vue, I decided to leave you behind for an additional month.

I have to apologize.

It seems that Kali, in her great love for all things in existence, has a great love for you as well. She would love nothing more than to grip you in her paws, hold you down on the floor, and lick you within an inch of your life.

You tend to think that this game is about as much fun as that time I dressed you up like a mummified Goddess and took pictures of you in the arms of my then-five year old nephew. Us human-folk refer to that as having you fixed. I'm sorry for laughing at you while you had that lampshade on your head, and I admit now that I kept in on you for three days longer than I should have because you were just so damn funny stalking around getting caught on everything in sight.

Because of Kali's exuberance in showing her love to you, you decided that your time was best spent in the top of my bunk bed, cowering in a corner as if leaches were waiting to suck the very life out of you.

Well, Coperni-Kitty, I guess it gets lonely up there in the top bunk after two months, and in your weeks since returning to the city, it's like you've become a new cat. You've discovered the art of purring. You've also become cuddly, which is the reason I got you in the first place. Every night, you cuddle up against me and drift off into kitty-licious sleep. Sorry for all the thrashing about: It's what I do when I sleep.

You've also become prone to trying to sit in my lap. You don't always look very happy to be there; quite the opposite. Frequently you sit on my lap, eyes squinted and ears pinned, looking your best like you're trying to enjoy the time being social. I'm sure some day you'll get this whole afection thing down. For now I'm just happy you're trying.

And so, Dear Copernicus, I leave you with this: When I was living in the Depths of Hell, feeding you orange water from its Hellish pipes and subjecting you to many a two a.m. phone call to the police because of all the schizophrenice neighbors, this is what I had envisioned in getting a cat. Someone to commiserate with, someone to chase the toy I lovingly crocheted around in circles, someone to keep me company at night.

It may not be perfect, and we've had some rocky times (Sorry again for that time I turned around in the car and threatened to have you thrown from the moving vehicle beneath the wheels of an oncoming bus) but here we are. I've started liking you. You've started tolerating me.

It's wonderful

Love,

Toonses