Driving through the desert in a car without A/C is as much fun as a sharp golden stick in the eye. I am awaiting new funding in the next couple months which would rectify this rampant sweatiness, but until then there is the happy thought of melanoma. It will be, no doubt, a fascinating topic of discussion at my next dinner party. It may make up for the salmon mousse.
I have yet to meet with advisors to see which courses I require to finish my degree. Less than a year remains until I join the hoity-toities who wear three-piece suits and glare at the proletariat from behind horn-rimmed glasses. On my lunch hour, of course, I'll wear a pith helmet and khakis and machete my way through jungles with a Londoner accent. A technicolor hero.
If that all fails, of course, I can fall back on my pontification, but that doesn't pay as well.
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