Dear Grad School,

Not to be overly dramatic or anything, but this semester may just kill me.

Hold on. Let me clarify by explaining that it feels like you are cutting away little pieces of me each time you outline another expectation or time commitment.

Well...can we be honest for a moment? Can we just do that? Be real with each other for one little sec? That's basically what you are doing.

You're asking me to apply myself in ways I never have. Which, of course, I will. And, since I am passionate about my purpose for doing this, and I am entirely committed to the end goal, I'm going to put everything I have into each of these tasks. But, do you really understand that? We're talking about all of me. Every last piece. It's all going to pour out of my body as I provide you with everything. But, you're not even going to stop are you? You will just keep on asking for more.

So, what else is left?! Not much. I hope you've sharpened your carving knife, because the only other thing I can think of is to provide you with bite sized chunks of myself. Would you like me to start with the vital organs, or would you prefer intact appendages? Better yet! Maybe you would just like to begin by dusting off that Hoover in your office and sucking out my soul. Whaddya think?

But first, at least give me this weekend. I'd like to take some personal time. I think I'll hunt for a nice burial plot, maybe prepare my own obituary. I mean, I think I owe that much to my loved ones. After all, they will be wondering where I went when I suddenly disappear into a monstrous stack of research papers and never ending To-Do lists. Because seriously that's how it looks like this whole thing is going to play out.

Anyway, since it looks like I won't have time for either in the coming months, I'm off to stock up on sleep and gorge myself on healthy food. If you decide to change your mind and go easy on me, you'll find me at the local coffee shop. Should the stress have rendered me unrecognizable, I'll be the haggard looking one huddled in the corner, rocking in the fetal position while murmuring incomprehensibly about gestalt theory, assessment inventories, and countertransference.

Resentfully Yours,

Mindy