WOUND TIGHTER THAN AN EIGHT DAY CLOCK

I am pretty chill about most things in life. But when it really counts, when it means I could throw off the entire orbit of the planetary systems, well, let's just say, I get a little anal retentive during those times.

Let's take grad school for instance.

When I was an undergraduate, my parents took care of the money side of things, including hounding me to fill out the 8 bazillion pages of financial aid documentation and making sure I had a bunch of money in my savings account for books and my half of the tuition each semester. And my college advisor, all but held my hand through my four years of undergraduate training to a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and Biology. God bless that woman!

Now?

Well, now, it's all me, and it completely freaks me out. I'm so afraid that I will forget a step or not sign a paper or not add correctly (it's been known to happen, people), and then the grad school police will burst through the doors of EDU 510 and drag me away kicking and screaming.

So, as a result, I terrorize almost any one that must deal with any aspect of my graduate education -- from my advisor to the poor business office clerks who must deal with every little, asinine question I have concerning financial aid.

I've thought of awarding them all with Starbucks gift cards at the end of my graduate career at Georgetown College, but how does one calculate the amount of caffeine the general public will need to get me through this nightmare called HIGHER EDUCATION?

After all, it takes a village, right?

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