I'm banging my head on the desk right now because I can't stop thinking of a poone conversation I had with the transfer directer yesterday morning. I called him at 9am (when their office opened), after having stayed awake all night doing homework and drinking coffee/ moutain dew, to discuss a transfer application I sent in last week . . . for fall of next year.
I'm sure this guy thinks I'm on drugs. I really do. I applied so early (6 MONTHS early) because they had rolling admissions, I was ready to apply now, and damn it, I just wanted to get it out of the way, let alone make sure I'd be able to set up an interview date since I'm 200 miles away. Turns out interviews aren't required.
Anyway, I called up with a million questions for him, and of course I was embarrassed as hell for jumping the gun with my app so I was being giggley and WIRED from all that caffiene. . . .
He ended up saying that he would email me to set up an interview date . . . but I haven't heard from him yet. I think he just said that so I would shut up and hang up the phone.
Damn it. This beats drunk dialing, that's for damn sure.


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