"I try not to look at my chest. It is ravaged, paved over, mowed down by the train tracks and parking lots of the Surgical Way. I know there are absences, as if the hollows were the surreptitious marks of a child’s spoon in tomorrow night’s dessert. The place where I thought my soul was located when I was five is no longer there."

This is from “Go Like This,” which might just be my favorite Lorrie Moore story (to be fair, this is like saying that pineapple pizza is my favorite kind of pizza: it is merely one example of greatness in a wholly enjoyable oeuvre). I wrote my philosophy final this past semester on the moral implications of suicide and euthanasia, and used “Go Like This” as one of my sources. This was inordinately exciting to me, for some reason—probably because I’m such a Lorrie Moore fangirl that it borders on being inappropriate and creepy.

An illustration of said inappropriate creepiness: I want to get an MFA, right, and Lorrie Moore teaches in the grad program at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. I am seriously considering moving to Wisconsin—a state about which I know nothing, save for the fact that it is very cold and possibly has the highest bovine-to-human-being ratio of any other place in America—just to be able to spend two years practicing my “craft” or whatever with this woman. I realize that UWisconsin has one of the most selective and prestigious and you-must-be-kidding-if-you-honestly-think-you-could-ever-get-in-there-Jess creative writing programs in the country, but this fact has not deterred me.

This is not to say that I’m completely delusional or anything. Like, I’m almost positive that, were we ever to meet in real life, Lorrie Moore would find me repugnant on personal grounds and my writing repugnant on aesthetic grounds—but still. In a little over a year, I will be sending my meager portfolio to a shit-ton of MFA programs. And damn if Wisconsin’s won’t be one of them.