My pain is freaking hilarious

Does it count as schadenfreude if it's aimed at yourself?

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I watched him talk. On purpose.
I'm en route to Boston for my bachelorette party, with my maid of honor by my side.

We pass a hotel and oh my god the memory! That's where I stayed 12 years ago!

I was delighted, elated, my ego inflated, to discover that my submission had earned me an interview at The New School's playwriting MFA program. Spring break my senior year, an interview was scheduled. The hotel was booked, the same one my bus just passed.

The interview went well. We discussed my play, and The Muppets. He told me I was on the shortlist. Once again, the ecstasy. The scary, brutal, joyful hope.

I've had more triumphs as a playwright than I imagined was realistic. My 22-year-old self is impressed with me. I'm not successful beyond my wildest dreams. But I'm happy. I can forgive The New School for its rejection, especially because we just passed Teachers College, Columbia University, where I totally attend!

What disgusts me, though, is that I was so happy and bursting with joy following my interview, I didn't take advantage of the city. I was too content--yet full of adrenaline--to do anything but chill in my hotel room. I wanted to be alone in my good company, free to dance and jump. All that was well and good. I got some Nutella and some small bottles of red wine.

And I watched the Apprentice.

The fucking Apprentice.

For some reason, there wasn't much on. Did my hotel room not have cable? What was in that wine? Was I mad with the prospect of my own glory, that my taste was rendered dumb?

Oh god, please forgive me, History! I didn't know.

(Oh hey, I'm getting married in three weeks, bachelorette party, woo!)


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