pplying to grad school is making me Crazy. "I'm not going to get in," I keep saying, because Not Getting In is this hideous, highly probable fate for which I must be braced. But if I'm Not Going to Get In, then why bother? So in order to Do the Thing, I must remember that All is Possible, that I have a Fighting Chance.
This is where my mother says, "Everything worthwhile in life requires a risk." Like love, like children, like reading AA Milne to your daughter so that she grows up to be someone who Capitalizes Things.
But Jesus, the Demoralization of the resume. The Snaggly-Toothed Hydra of an personal statement. The pain, the Pain, the PAIN of the original work.
This is where my mother says, "Have I mentioned you're a Drama Queen?"
Come on, Mom, you Don't Understand. It's My Fucking Life.
This is where my father says, "I don't understand why you have to use those Cuss Words so much."
That's not The Point, dad. Mom, tell him it's not The Point.
This is where my mother says, "What's The Point, dear?"
The point is Possible Rejection. That I might be Rejected.
"And?" they both say.
And That Sucks. That's Hard.
They both slap each other high-fives and turn on Seinfeld. They really love that show.