>It's hot here. Not in the Paris Hilton "That's hott" way. It's hot as in the I sweat through my underwear walking down the block hot. (And no, reducing the pube mass down there would not have made me any less sweaty.) When it's 95 degrees and 97% humid, there is nothing except air conditioning and/or a freezing shower that will help. It is to remain this hot for the next few days. Bah.

Last week I began a prose writing course at mediabistro. As I have never enrolled in a "real" writing class before, I had no idea what to expect. I learned that I cannot distinguish between concrete and abstract narratives. It sounds easy enough - is this sentence providing concrete or abstract details? - but this is a deceptive lie. Fortunately, I am not the only clueless student, and perhaps the distinction will sink in over the next seven Wednesday evenings.

The class is taught by the associate director of the New School's MFA program. One of the women in the class is a computer programmer and current nonfiction student in the New School MFA program. She rocks. Incidentally, she was wait listed last year. She said she was admitted at the last minute. (Die, false hope that this has raised! Die!)

Even if my brilliant inability to distinguish between abstract and concrete narrative does not convince the powers that be at New School that I am perfect for their MFA program, I feel very good about the class so far. It is good experience for any future program that might be fooled into admitted me; I am learning things; and hopefully, I will also walk away from the course with a new friend. All good things, assuming that I first do not melt in this hideous heat.

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