Seattle + Vocab

I was getting more and more distressed about paying rent on the vacated 12th avenue room, but the acme of my devastation occurred when my Jetta broke down for good.

Despite their awkward and decidedly unhandsome appearances, Kidron’s male roommates always had a bevy of females ready for fucking.

Kidron’s revolving roommates all had several things in common: A penchant for constant bonomy all night, extreme messiness, and a shortage of funds.

Upon moving here, I hadn’t realized Seattle was an abyss of pretention, rabid environmentalism, and narrow-minded liberalism.

Once I moved to Seattle, my life became wracked with constant chaos due to the necessity of living with morally corrupt strangers and working with the entitled public.

In both my 12 Ave duplex and Kidron’s shared house, irresponsible roommates mindlessly defaced the rental property.

The dissonace of honking horns and rude drivers was bested only by the dischord of every living arrangement in the city.

Joe-Cool became fractious, requiring Prozac in order to use the litter-box rather than our sheets, after listening to the constant dischord in the house.

The expensive nature of Seattle housing, taxes, gasoline, groceries, entertainment, etc, etc  is contrary to any frugal lifestyle.

Garrulous Tabatha often forced me into conversation when all I wanted was relaxing peace and quiet after working with the public.

Instead of the lifelong friends I had hoped for, my roommates and I were instantly heterogeneous, not agreeing on anything.

When Kidron wrote a blog questioning the lack of chain restaurants in the city, Seattle individuals invidiously ganged up on her and told her chains were not welcome, and attacked her character for suggesting such an atrocious thing.

When  first came to Seattle, I believed whole-heartedly in recycling, but after being inundated with veracious environmentalists who criticized ignorance of the complicated trash systems and recycling policies, I started to rebel against green-living.

Almost as soon as I arrived in Seattle, and realized I would be unable to afford individual housing, I began to lament my days in Missouri when I had my own one bedroom apartment all to myself.

I was leery about walking on sketchy Aurora Avenue or going to work in the dark, because of the addicts, prostitutes, and delinquents hanging out on the street and at the motels nearby.

First the douchi-brothers than Party Animal would be constantly home using the utilities, listless all day after night-long, loud debauchery.

I came to dread Auntie’s loquacious and repetitive chatter.

We called Tabitha “Elephant-Stomper” because she lumbered around so hard at all-hours that the floor would shake.

Despite her own sloppiness, inconsiderate behavior, and inability to finish any project she started, Tabitha was a martinetabout everyone else’s minor slights around 12th avenue.

I once made the mistake of riding the bus to The Ave late at night and realized the overabundance of mendicants made the solitary walk home very dangerous for a young woman.

In the night and wee hours of the morning it was difficult for me to be good-natured about the noisy mirth of my roommates’ parties–it made me tired and bellicose.

It nettled me that every person showing a shared property asked me if I liked to garden, but never inquired about my ability to pay rent.

My male roommate was perfunctory to the extreme, keeping his night job without even handing out a resume anywhere else, locking himself in his room rather than directly dealing with Tabitha, and even skipping meals because he didn’t care enough to heat anything up.

Night after night, day after day, the number of people in Kidron’s shared-house would proliferate to the point we never recognized the faces staring our way when we ventured out of the bedroom to go to the bathroom.

As a sort of head-count, Tabitha would always initiate conversation upon entering the house, prattling on endlessly about nothing.

The stentorian sound of traffic and roommates in Seattle is constant.

Tabitha refused to wash her own dishes or clean up after herself–for weeks, but when I cleaned she would go into a tiradeabout how she didn’t like anyone touching her belongings.

Just Vocab

When I retire, I would love to eloquently write a series of books based on my life.

At work and in public I keep my trenchant observations to myself for the most part–I wait to unleash them on Kidron or to write them down.

It may seem like my books all have sour topics, but I am not bitter.

I do have some biting observations and acetous opinions, but I write them down so I am a more positive person.

I do not subscribe to the mentality that every shit-head acerbic person in my life has made me who I am today–I’m angry they marred me.

That said, without the more tart aspects of life,  would not have topics for my future best-selling books.

The piquant nature of my memoirs are going to really embarrass the people in them–but those fucks deserve it.

If you have been a pungent, negative influence in my life–watch out, you’ll be in one of my books.

The acidulous content in “Douche,” “As the Ark Floats,” “Cabin-Mansion,” and “Satan George” are sure to make them popular.

I will show integrity and propriety in the books, telling the truth about my poor choices or bad behavior as well as show-casing the terrible actions of others.

I will not be modest about the things I saw and experienced at the hands of others–those people do not deserve my pity.

Douche and Mary, especially do not deserve any sympathy on my part–neither of them showed me any decency.

I’m sure I will be accused of forgetting decorum and of lying in my books, but I will know (and so will those people) that I have written the facts as they happened.

I don’t really care about the appropriateness of telling these stories to the public, the people in them should have shown more restraint if they didn’t want their actions broadcasted.

Vet School Admittance + Vocab

Assail my bad luck and say how hard I have to compensate for it.

It would make my dreams come true if I could just beget an acceptance to veterinary school.

Bringing about an acceptance package, rather than the thin, failure letter, has been a long, difficult task.

I could tell how failure to get into veterinary school right away forced me to burnish my skills and only fueled my desire instead of making me cynical.

Use the cacophony of the hospital or things found in a vet clinic to demonstrate my positive characteristics.

The ETS has caused me to reevaluate my studying methods, by generating a new version of the GRE test.

Maybe tell how chauvinist employers, teachers, and other men have made me work hard to overcome their mentality.

Use concrete examples that show my cupidity to get into the profession, rather than just telling.

Show I am not some rich debutante and I have worked very hard for the chance to get into veterinary school.

It would probably not be a good idea to talk about the dissonance between my mentor Mary and me, though it would show that I have integrity of character and a great inner strength.

It sounds counterintuitive or lazy, but at this point in my life, I want to engender a veterinary school acceptance with the least work possible.

Relate the gestation signs and stages of some animal to my progress through school and into veterinary medicine.

I could talk about how long I’ve attempted to get into a veterinary program, and emphasize that I will be implacable with desire until I am accepted.

Tell of everything I learned while working so they know I haven’t been indolent since I graduated.

Talk about pole vault and clogging and relate those intractable goals to my goal of vet medicine.

Talking about my poor grades would more than likely be a death knell to my application.

I want the essay to take an optimistic tone, not feature a lachrymose “feel sorry for me” stance.

I want to somehow play off my languid path to veterinary school as I am more mature to handle the rigors of such an intense curriculum.

It would be cute to somehow use a metaphor to describe my desire to get in or connect attributes to something in the essay.

I could talk about my upstanding ethics and how my mores lead me to be honest.

An essay about my sheer, obdurate will to get into vet school might be a common theme among applicants.

My essay goal is to procreate a series of essay options, and pick the best one.

To accomplish that, I need to proliferate a number of good ideas and actually have the motivation to carry them out.

Producing a clever, succinct, and outstanding personal statement will be very important in my quest for acceptance.

I want to convey that veterinary medicine is not some puerile dream that I don’t intend to put everything into.

I will look in my essay book for help, but be careful not to reproduce an essay that is featured.

Hopefully, I can spawn a winning essay that describes my journey in an insightful and unique way.

Prove with my voluntary moves to different regions of the country that I am not xenophobic, and try to fill a niche by telling of my Salish heritage.

I don’t want to emphasize how transient and zephyr my residences became after college graduation.

Those that abstained from working during school have a huge advantage when applying to veterinary school, because they had more time to study, gain animal experience, and get involved in extracurricular activities.

It makes me so angry that students like Melissa and Ashley (the list goes on and on), with blithe attitudes about work, can so easily get into veterinary school when I have worked so hard to get in only to be defeated repeatedly.

When I talk about my quest to get into veterinary school, I sound confident, but inside I’m craven and terrified I will never get admitted.

I long for the days before 2007, and the Cabin-Mansion incidents, that my veterinary mentor wrote glowing encomiums on my behalf to the veterinary admissions board.

Instead of telling the admissions committee I’m a loser who failed to get into veterinary school three times in a row, I will use the euphemism, “I have shown much perseverance by not becoming discouraged by the first sign of adversity.”

My intentions to move to Spokane must remain furtive so I can remain on good terms with Aurora Veterinary Hospital and get a good letter of recommendation from Bernstein.

I tell myself that there is no race to becoming a veterinarian and I have all the time in the world, but don’t especially want to be the hoary student in the class.

As much as I wanted to, I was unable to maintain imperturbability after my second and third rejections and failed loan, instead opting to panic and become depressed.

It’s unfortunate that my employers give me kudos for my extraordinary work ethic and extensive knowledge of the veterinary profession, yet veterinary school can’t see beyond my (relatively mediocre) G.P.A.

Most people qualified to apply for veterinary school are good at writing and feel passionate about their career choice, so the admissions committee is forced to look at nuances in the personal statements to narrow the field.

It does not look great for me that my extracurricular activities and academic endeavors have become quiescent since I graduated from college.

In the next year, I have to refrain from any ribald inclinations so I can look professional to the admissions committee and those in positions to help or hurt my chances of getting in to school.

Despite many, may set-backs in the last few years, I have remained, for the most part, sanguine about my efforts to get into veterinary school.

The chances of ANY student making it into one of the few veterinary schools is scintilla at best–admittance to a veterinary program is more competitive than acceptance to medical school.