The closer I get to completing my Master's degree, the less impressed I am with Master's degrees, because I am not very impressed with myself.
Case in point: when I was young, mom would send me to the basement to retrieve a can of soup. From time to time, I would trot down the stairs, and by the time my right foot touched the basement floor, my purpose in going downstairs was blissfully forgotten.
That is until I heard my name shouted full-force ten minutes later.
"What is that?" I ask, having raced halfway up the stairs.
"Where is the soup?"
Oh yeah!
It even happened, a few times, that after this dialogue, I again forgot my purpose the moment my feet touched the basement floor.
So, flashback to the present, I give up looking for a lost textbook after my fifth day of searching. Not even the absurd cost of textbooks can thwart my blindness. Is this the kind of absent-mindedness to be expected from one who is less than a year from the fantastic title, "Master Keith?"
From M. Nelson: Don't worry nobody with be calling you, "Master Keith," that's a right only reserved for karate instructors.
Good luck finding your book.
From Keith: I once said to a fellow at work: "Those who fear me call me 'Wild Side'"
Then he said: "I've never heard anyone call you 'Wild Side'."
"Yeah," I said, "No one fears me yet."
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