In which I almost wreck my car.

I remember the moment I received my offer letter pretty clearly, and fortunately for my twitter followers, they probably do as well.

Well, let me backtrack a little bit. I won’t go into detail about the application process. (If you haven’t figured out by now that this blog will be about my graduate school adventures, you either skipped the ‘About’ section entirely or have poor reading comprehension skills.)  I also won’t go into detail about the months and months I spent agonising after submitting my application. Actually, I’m lying about the months and months part. I got accepted to the program less than a month after I had applied and before either of my references had been sent in, but that’s actually an important detail of the story I’m about to tell.

So anyway, during the nearly four weeks I had to wait to hear whether I was accepted to the program, I convinced myself pretty easily that I wasn’t going to get in. Not to be humble, but mostly because nothing has gone my way at all since I graduated from college almost two years ago, so why would it now? Plus, the Social Anthropology program was my top choice (out of, well, only two, but to be fair, I had considered up to six different schools). If I had a dollar for every time someone said I chose this program because it’ll put me closer to Manchester United, I’d probably have enough money (converted to pounds) to actually buy a ticket to a game at Old Trafford, which I probably won’t have otherwise. But I digress. Despite a few people telling me it didn’t have enough “name recognition” internationally and my dad’s less-than-thrilled attitude regarding his beloved daughter incurring a mountain of debt, I was still set on Manchester.

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