lolamatopoeia: (whoopdeefuckingdo)
I'm not sure if it's that it just hasn't hit me yet or if it's that I'm actually alright with the fact that I did not get into the PhD program, but I'm surprisingly OK. In any case, thanks to all of you for the congratulations! :)

What may really be the kicker is seeing all of the really smart and well deserving people I know get their acceptance letters rolling in over the next little while. Then it might actually hit me and I'll be able to process all of it. Maybe do a little grieving because any rejection, no matter how OK I am about it, sucks. No no, what will actually be really tough is when my former classmates from my MA get their PhD's in a few years. Hopefully by then I'll be in a better place in life though and I'll be better prepared to deal with that. I'll be OK. The rejection doesn't mean that I am not intelligent or that my idea isn't something that needs to be pursued, it just means that it isn't my time. Or, maybe it really is just not the right path for me - and that's OK. I'm still OK.

The thing is, I'm now trying to wrap my head around the idea that this means I'm actually going to New Zealand in a few months, and that I'm truly going to be a Teacher (and a damn good one). Just, wow. That part, that's the part that doesn't feel real.


I went for my second run this week at the Running Room and I'm so glad I did. I was feeling so sore, as though my thigh muscles had ripped away from the bone, but I knew that if I didn't go I might as well give up now because I won't keep up the commitment. I took it easy and actually felt exhilarated by the end of the run - so much so that I grabbed the dog as soon as I got home and took her for a few rounds around the block as well! One of the best parts of the whole experience is the whole community aspect - other runners wave and smile as they run by and welcome me in their groups and their lifestyle and it's such a friendly space to be in, on top of the activity, fresh air, and a great sense of accomplishment. So glad I joined.


I need my hair cut off, like now. I am so sick of the stuff growing out of my head I could just rip it out. I'm just so sick of my look with this hair - it just hangs there. It's just long and straight and I almost never do anything with it. I hardly even wear it in a ponytail or anything anymore. It just hangs there because I can't be bothered fussing over it. Maybe I just need a new style or something, like maybe I'll get some bangs or whatnot, but lately I've been thinking of doing things like this, or this (the redhead), also here, or maybe even this (on the left). I'm leaning most toward the first photo. I need something drastic and that I don't have to do anything with, but I'm also terrified of having an awful haircut to display in pictures of my time overseas. Bah! Let me know what you think, keeping in mind that I currently look like this:

The picture of Tudor and me was taken on Saturday night at a work event. Yep, I'm that short, and he's pretty cute too. I have a nice face stuffed full of food in that there photo.
lolamatopoeia: (Default)
I have been trying to read Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer" on and off for the past few weeks and I'm not sure if there's just something I'm not getting or that I haven't been focussed enough for it, but I ... I'm just not into it. It's not that it is bad, it's just that I'm feeling 'meh' about it. Reading it feels forced at this point. I'm not sure what it is about it that has put me off. Maybe it's that I had such high expectations, or maybe it's the style, I'm not sure. It feels somehow inaccessible. I'm not sure how to describe it. To be blunt, it feels as though I'm reading an oddly disjointed and aimless story revolving around an exclusive group/non-group of pretentious writers in Europe who just fuck and write and constantly reflect (coldy) on themselves and on writing in a dull and removed, self-revolving, style that is virtually unrelatable. Even the fucking is emotionless and unappealing. The writing feels elitist, inaccessible, and masturbatory (for the writer rather than the reader) and not in a good way.

I don't know, maybe I'm missing something. I'm probably missing something. Or, maybe I'm on to something.

In unrelated news, this week has been and continues to be busy. I'm spending time with friends, new and old. I'm going out, seeing new things, having fun, getting fresh air. I'm going to a burlesque show on Friday and I have nothing to wear! I'm not spending Friday night in thermal underwear! It is all very, very good. Busy is good.
lolamatopoeia: (boss)
I finished the application, and it's now out of my hands. I am exhausted. I got a lot of help from some tremendous and brilliant friends, and I put my best efforts into the proposal and now it's just ... it's done. I am completely trusting that whatever happens after this, I will be completely ok.

To be honest though, things are going to get really fucking complicated if I actually get in.
lolamatopoeia: (Default)
I've been working on this awful Statement of Intent for my PhD application all day today. It's bad, I mean really bad. Well, it's an excellent idea and concept but the application itself is just poorly executed and badly researched and I can't pretend that the committee won't see that.

The thing is, while I've been struggling to write this thing I've been having to stop myself from researching places to stay in New Zealand when I get there. As I was browsing through flats to rent in Canterbury I had to stop myself to ask 'What the hell am I doing?'. No, really - what the hell am I doing?

I went to a party (the annual Festivus party, yes it is as awesome as it sounds) last night with some great friends. I have great friends and I don't spend enough time with them having fun. I had fun, and I need to have fun and really truly enjoy the fun times more often.

I haven't been outside all day. I haven't breathed fresh air all day. The sun went up and it went down and I've been in my pajamas, tied to this proposal, locked away and full of anxiety all day. If by some weird twist of fate I actually get in to this program today is just a taste of what I would be facing for the next 4-7 years. What the hell am I doing?

All of this is telling me something, I know. I'm trying my best to listen.


Jan. 7th, 2009 12:14 am
lolamatopoeia: (Default)
Tudor and I were talking briefly about applications, about PhD's and academia in general and I mentioned how I never really saw an end point to my academic journey when I started graduate school (or, even during my undergrad). I just assumed that I would go on afterwards and continue into a career in a university, as a professor. I didn't consider anything outside of that and I really, really, really should have. I chose to get a Master of Arts degree in English Literature because I like books, and I didn't want to stop being in school. I was very wrong, and I've got years of being virtually unemployable and miserable to show for it.

If I were to do it all again, I explained to him, if I would have known that a PhD was not for me (since I'm still not sure it is, even though I'm applying) I would have chosen a more marketable, career-focused, Masters program - like professional or creative writing, or library sciences, or museum studies. I could pursue a lot of the things I'd like to professionally with any one of those degrees, and would have turned out much more employable and possibly much less miserable.

If I were really able to do it over again, though, I realized with absolute resolve - I would have done an MFA instead and studied Art History and learned to be a better painter and sculptor. In such a program I would have pursued the things that bring me so much joy I can feel it in my fingertips and I would be marketable to galleries, museums and other cultural institutions where I would flourish. Yes, absolutely - if I could go back I would have done an MFA instead. And flourished.

This may not seem like much to you reading it, but to me that knowledge feels like a revelation. I felt the need to document it in some way. If I were to do it again, I would pursue a Master of Fine Arts degree, and painted and sculpted and studied the masters, instead. I know this for certain, I wish I would have known this then and followed my first instincts.

I think that if I go to New Zealand I will definitely pick up my third teachable subject and become qualified to teach Art as well.

A second Masters would just be silly though, wouldn't it?
lolamatopoeia: (up the nose)
I slipped the worst essay I've ever written EVER ever under the door of my tiny teacher's door today and scurried off to class where I learned about Dry Lips and Kapuskasing and rape scenes and crucifixes and something about women wearing big boob plastic prosthetics and big butts and big baby bellies and liquoring it up behind white screens as told by a german girl with acne scars and pocahontas hair.

I somehow wound up in the grad club after class after the birthday girl met us in the hall wreaking of vodka and citrus, giggling and leaning against someone's office door. I drank a lot with my lesbian transvestite friends and my shy birthday girl who read my palms and were like - you very creative, get writing, you get big money, you're where you belong, live long life, you get babies, ooooh you're in love! - and we talked about dickmen jerking off to theories that no one understood in a presentation that most of us left halfway through because he'd run an hour and a half about gooble degoo crap that made me wanna smash my head against the desk and smash his hand against the old sony laptop he kept tap tap tap tapping and we laughed about our hatred for the most intimidating class ever and the worst essays we'd ever written EVER ever. I tried to explain my essay and they were all like 'oooooh sounds ineresting' and I'm like yeah, SOUNDS LIKE! Blleghg.

We chased down our shots with more liquor in ice and clear glasses. I think i remember taking a glass home, I should check my backpack. One girl told me about how lesbian relationships develop and how she wants to cuddle. Another girl told us about her screaming fights with her Marlene Dietrich-loving soon-to-be ex-girlfriend who called her selfish and too involved in school and told her she cares too much and she's NOT ALLOWED TO WASH THE DISHES ANYMORE since she's now a guest at home and SHE GETS THE CATS!! and by the way, WE'RE NOT GAY, it says so in the contract, and we're like - dude, you're gay.

And then I watched the two of them rub each other's thighs under the table and make blushing googly eyes (class next week will be awk-ward!) and then go home on the bus together as I waved goodbye to friends and sang Rod Stewart songs on my walk home. Now I can't stop the drunk and am eating chocolate cake.
lolamatopoeia: (Default)
Laura will write 97% of an ill-conceived essay in less than 24hrs.
Oh, grad school, you're hilarious! Muah! Love ya.

the boob

Jan. 18th, 2006 09:51 am
lolamatopoeia: (Default)
Is it so wrong that I'd rather watch a pretty girl younger than myself get her mammaries mildly molested at an awards ceremony, or view images of rich and famous people I don't know who either need some support or some deflation than read a large 18th century novel which will make up a part of a twenty-page essay due in twelve wee days?*

Yes. Yes, it most definitely is.

Especially since I've yet to type a single sentence related to said essay in my word processor. Especially since I woke up in a cold panic early this morning having dreamt that the next twelve days had magically disappeared as a result of poor time management. Especially since I only faintly remember my alarm clock whispering 'GET THE HELL OUTTA BED INGRATE' this morning, between dreams, as I had fallen asleep with earplugs in my ears yet again. Especially since certain visitors from Waterloo will be a-visiting in a few days and this lady needs to dance!

So Laura, it is now the time to stop gazing at boobies and get to work, for goodness' (and lord academia's) sake. Now wipe that damn smirk off your face and make yourself a coffee.

*as a side note, was it so wrong that I laughed near urination at the story of a man reading a poem entitled 'Ode to the First Woman Who Swallowed My Cum' at the Grad club, while the other feminists in the room scowled?


lolamatopoeia: (Default)

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