That's right bitches!

Though it took me a good four hours to complete the gauntlet that is filing one's thesis, I completed it yesterday in full. After standing in lines and submitting paperwork, running across campus, asking strangers for cotton paper, and being treated like a retard by the evil copy lady, I completed the final step, turned in my all-parts-signed-and-official form to the big records office. A lady named Alice handed me the golden sheaf of paper, which so lovingly reads "To whom it may concern Amelia H-------------- has completed the degree of Mast-" Wait a minute, that's not my name!

The final insult, assuring their power to make me suffer right up until the bitter end, the academia gods had pooped on my name, and poor little Alice was a ploy in their wicked, wicked game. Luckily she had the word processing power necessary to fix the "error," and in only ten more minutes (why the fuck should it take so long to retype three words and hit print?) a corrected form was in my hands.

As I told the girl standing next to me, this was an entirely anti-climactic end. It was just... over. I was hoping for the 1 millionth customer through the door treatment, you know confetti in my hair, balloons dropping from the ceiling, pictures taken and maybe a big huge cardboard check for an obscene amount of money... But, it seems, I was not the 1 millionth person to file her thesis. No hoopla for me. Bastardos...

But it's okay, in my mind I always have confetti in my hair...