I'm hosting my own pity party tonight. There is nothing major to feel sad about except punctuation and too many spaces between periods. Yes, we live on a planet bursting with life, waxwings, manatees, meteors flash above us, comets pass by, children are born in taxicabs, minor miracles take place daily, and tonight, I count the spaces between periods and where the next sentence begins. Not one, not three, but two spaces.
I'm buying a bumpersticker that says, "I spent $22,000 on graduate school and all I got was this lousy MLA handbook."
When my critical paper has been officially accepted, you will know it.
Signed,
the one in the pink bunny suit
