Jumping Through Hoops
I hate personal statements.
Most people are probably well aware of how much I hate them. For those who aren't, this is fiery-passion-of-a-thousand-suns-and-then-some hatred.
I *cannot* write them.
And I have to. Within the next two days. So I can hand it in for the Gates Fellowship, which has to be the absolute *best* grant I could possibly get for next year. I suppose there had to be soul-selling or some vague equivalent involved, as it's Bill Gates.
But personal statements? That's at least the Seventh Circle of Hell as far as I'm concerned.
I'm almost entirely convinced that one of the main reasons I managed to get into programmes here at Cambridge is the fact that none of the applications required a bloody personal statement. It was all about my research. I can talk about my research, no problems there.
However, ask me to sell myself and we have a problem. I look shitty on paper. I just do. I'm just not the sparkly Student Council President type of person. I'm obsessive cross-reference girl. I'm both willing to and capable of spending hours transcribing fifteenth-century letters in order to dredge up every last possible reference to Richard III. Useful? Marginally. Sparkly? Hells no.
I'm patient with books. Not with people.
::blinks::
Right. Still not intoxicated enough to even spill out the dregs of a personal statement. All I need is something on paper. I can revise when sober. I just can't write this particular sort of thing.
More alcohol. Yes. Let there be Bénédictine. Happy orange tipsiness with a vengeance. And then maybe I can sell myself.
Academic prostitution. Such a painful process.
Most people are probably well aware of how much I hate them. For those who aren't, this is fiery-passion-of-a-thousand-suns-and-then-some hatred.
I *cannot* write them.
And I have to. Within the next two days. So I can hand it in for the Gates Fellowship, which has to be the absolute *best* grant I could possibly get for next year. I suppose there had to be soul-selling or some vague equivalent involved, as it's Bill Gates.
But personal statements? That's at least the Seventh Circle of Hell as far as I'm concerned.
I'm almost entirely convinced that one of the main reasons I managed to get into programmes here at Cambridge is the fact that none of the applications required a bloody personal statement. It was all about my research. I can talk about my research, no problems there.
However, ask me to sell myself and we have a problem. I look shitty on paper. I just do. I'm just not the sparkly Student Council President type of person. I'm obsessive cross-reference girl. I'm both willing to and capable of spending hours transcribing fifteenth-century letters in order to dredge up every last possible reference to Richard III. Useful? Marginally. Sparkly? Hells no.
I'm patient with books. Not with people.
::blinks::
Right. Still not intoxicated enough to even spill out the dregs of a personal statement. All I need is something on paper. I can revise when sober. I just can't write this particular sort of thing.
More alcohol. Yes. Let there be Bénédictine. Happy orange tipsiness with a vengeance. And then maybe I can sell myself.
Academic prostitution. Such a painful process.