It’s gonna be a wreck, alright.

Day 2 | Sober | Head Exploding, Diet Bondage

I’m exhausted, foggy, can’t function. Had to spend the entire afternoon in bed. Red-faced pseudo-identity is prickin’ my hippocampus with his prongs, peels of laughter reverberate between my ears.

This email went off this morning. It took all my faculties to compose it. The past haunts the present. [still]

The note should have been sent in May of ’95 when “the incident” occurred to prevent the shit storm that followed—I place “the incident” in quotes—it’s a term Dave Gahan uses when refraining to his come-back-from-death overdose in ’96.

Dear Dean Curtis,

My name is Ginny and I earned a Winthorpe MBA in 2006. I’m writing, frankly, to ask you for your help.

Firstly, I’d like to briefly highlight my career and how it is that I came to enroll in the esteemed MBA, initially in 1992. [When naive, the world was still my oyster, and I didn’t seek escape from it through alcohol, Snickers, chicken parm and French fries; running away, getting mixed up with felons, and adopting a number of unwanted animals that could easily become a 501 (c) (3).]

In ’92, the graduate student body was still predominantly men. I was working as an Executive Assistant at a nearby Fortune 100 [and engaging in a then-considered hugely scandalous affair with a top executive 23 years my senior] and wanted to emulate my male peers who were climbing the corporate ladder while getting their MBAs. I was admitted [by exposing my cleavage and batting my eyelashes over my rejection letter at the then-Dean], earned A and B’s, and pursued a Financial Analyst position reporting to the CMO at Cold Boot Inc, a thriving

Hot Boot Inc acquired Cold Boot a year into my employment [I got involved with both CEO’s following a rave to celebrate the merger—ghastly hungover I met Hot Boot’s CEO for “breakfast” in his Four Seasons suite, and Cold Boot’s CEO and I carried on naughty exchanges online and fulfilled the fantasies, in person, a handful of times]. On the eventful day of the merger, I lost my job [I was offered a lateral working for a peer, an 80’s-styling Betty Crocker—yeah, no], my divorce finalized (my husband wanted me to bear children) and I had a final Financial Accounting exam scheduled in the evening with Instructor Alaska McNab

Going into the exam I had maintained a B average; was halfway through the curriculum. My mind was jumbled [I’m not choosing she’s-having-a-baby route]. I asked McNab for a makeup in two weeks’ time, explained my situation. She told me if I didn’t take the exam that evening, she would fail me. [The bitch, it turns out, had kicked two husbands to the curb and held no empathy for divorce.]

I walked away disheartened [fucking shellshocked] and an F showed up on my report card. It changed my trajectory; it changed everything. [Let me reiterate, IT CHANGED EVERYTHING.]

Measuring out a pork chop in Cody, July ’95.

I did some soul searching [where I really fucked-up my life]. Worked on a ranch in Wyoming [where I got hit-and-run-and-maimed by a newly licensed driver], lived in Tucson for a while [got mixed up with a gorgeous wife-beating California-blond-crack-addict-aircraft-mechanic who drunk on his shift, taxied a 747 down the runway until the Feds got onboard]. I started my own graphic design business based on the principles I learned at Winthorpe and yearned to finish the MBA.

I returned home in ’98 to live in my parent’s basement [with 5 cats, broke and in debt], reestablished my corporate career, and picked up my studies in ’02 and completed the MBA in ‘06. [I squeaked out of Financial Accounting with a C- because the professor was impressed with my knowledge of Highland scotches.]

Up until ‘09, I could easily land a job [I was fantastically fit, acutely self-aware, confident and coquettish]. During the recession of ‘08, I got laid off [fired] from a high paying project manager role [my boss gave my job to her newly unemployed, retirement-aged husband]. I couldn’t land work after that and foreclosed on my home and filed bankruptcy. I caught the writing bug in the interim, was mentored by a coach who encouraged me to earn an MFA (despite the 25K remaining of my MBA loans), claiming I had the talent of memoirists Mary Carr and Jeannette Walls [an utter fabrication] and well, I sort of got off track again [Christ]. In retrospect, writing was an endeavor to be enjoyed, a form of catharsis, but held no promise in earning a living.

At 52 years of age, employers aren’t responding to my well-crafted cover letters and solid credentials [how the fuck did I get to 52-years-old and obsolete]

I have to find a new approach to landing a permanent position—I can’t keep trying the same thing and expecting different results [novel, Ginny]

Could you help me, Dean Curtis?

[He’s thinking, is this loser really one of ours?]

I respectively thank you for your consideration [I’m a moron].


Ginny Gruesome, M’06


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