Accepted

This week has been rather eventful; I had meant to make a post a few days ago, but I guess I just got caught up with it. I've been going straight from work (be it assignments or at Wawa) to Aunt Michelle's to spend time with her. And if Angel has a problem with it, she can fuck off.

I was also thinking more about my last post...I feel like I may have made the wrong decision. Well, maybe not the wrong one, but certainly not the smart one. The way Practical Cat worded it, he could have been talking about the FBI. I don't know who PC is -- don't know how influential he is when he's not a psychopathic creeper. If he could've gotten those feds off my tail, or hell, even given me some information I didn't already have, I could have used that. If I'd actually had a sit and thought about it, I would have taken him up and used him. Maybe that would have been dangerous, but what the hell. Instead, he had to do it on a night that I was drunk and emotional.

On Wednesday, I tried on Rose's jacket. I don't know why I did it; it just sort of happened. But when I put it on, I felt something. Something like what I feel when he's around -- that odd, sick feeling -- only spun around. I didn't feel sick or exposed or wrong; it was positive, even warm. It was like the presence of a friend. It was like her. Maybe it was traces of her scent still left on it, stirring up old memories.

I've worn it a couple more times, but I feel weird about it. Positive feeling or not, I don't think that wearing the clothes of a dead girl is exactly healthy.

But I digress. This post isn't about those things. Because for the first time in weeks, I have good news.

This morning, I went down to the office in my house and looked in the little box where Dad puts mail that comes for me. I usually never get mail, but today there were two letters. One was postmarked for almost a week ago (gee, thanks, Dad), and the other looked like it came just yesterday. The first looked like the results from my application for financial aid. The second was addressed austerely to Miss Celeste V. McLachlan; its return address was Arkham, Massachusetts.

I opened the Arkham letter first. The letterhead bore the coat of arms like a prestigious, foreboding statue made of India ink and they used Courier instead of Times font -- an odd choice, but an odd school. "Dear Miss McLachlan," it read.

"It is with great pleasure that I write today to inform you that you have been accepted for admission to Miskatonic University."

It went on for some time after that. The other sheets of paper folded into the envelope detailed housing and course information, access numbers to Net-2, and passwords to the students portion of their website and student forum. I didn't much care for any of it, because I was busy screaming the kind of joyful, creative obscenities that made me happy that my little stepbrothers weren't home. Not because of the swearing, but because I probably would've thrown one of them at something.

The other letter confirmed that I qualify for financial aid. There is now officially no excuse for that pernicious snake of a woman to use to keep me here.

I'm going to Massachusetts in the fall. I'm going to a real college -- not just a real college, but the college of my dreams. I'm going to Miskatonic.

I'm going.