The cruelest of all mathematical equations

I have always wondered what exactly it would feel like to be an Olympian. To have a representation of years and years of training, sacrifice, and hard work encapsulated in just a few moments. To stand at the top of a steep hill with nothing but experience and two strips of carbon fiber and plastic between me and certain death. To see the competitor right before me have a perfect run. To sense the tension of the crowd, the critical gaze of the awaiting judges. To have a set standard of performance that is almost humanly impossible to beat.

I don't know what it's like to be an Olympian, but I think auditioning for graduate schools is, in many ways, a pretty decent likeness. Now that both my auditions and the Olympics are finished, however, I have come to realize that there is one large and torturous difference between the two. The skiers get to look at the scoreboard as soon as they arrive at the bottom of the hill; the skaters receive their points from the judges within mere seconds of exiting the ice. Pianists, on the other hand, must wait. And wait. And wait. And WAIT. One month of human time = one bazillion katrillion quajillion years of waiting time. If it weren't for dear school keeping my brain so occupied, I would most likely have developed five ulcers by now. Possibly six. As is, I have yet to fall asleep at night without my thoughts inevitably dwelling upon the mysterious future. But, on the up-side, note to self: All one needs to do to acquire a plentiful supply of patience and endurance is fly all over the country and audition for a coveted spot in a studio full of ridiculously talented pianists.

There is nothing quite so eery

as coming home to an empty, locked apartment and hearing the music of "Phantom of the Opera" floating down the shadowy staircase. And upon further investigation, discovering that said music is originating from my very own darkened bedroom. Creepy, I tell you. Creepy.