The internets

You know what's weird? Doing an idle search on match.com to see who's out there, and seeing that Scientist is "online now!"

Things have been very calm with him, but he's very hard to read, and I have no idea what he's thinking. Last night he came out to dinner with me and Gen, a college friend who's a grad student here, and it was fine. When I invited him to the dinner I'd already planned with Gen, he didn't seem freaked out. He came over to hang out at the house after dinner, and when Mathgirl came home, we all played with her games in the Fun Room (the finished basement with the 57-inch TV, Wii, elliptical, DVD collection, Calvin & Hobbes library, and board games).

I drove him home at 12:30 or so, and when I came home and debriefed with Mathgirl, she remarked, "He's very reserved. I had no idea if he was bored, or having fun, or wanted to leave or what." I'm pretty sure he was enjoying himself, and told her so, but agreed that it was very hard to figure out what he was thinking. Mathgirl said, "I kind of want to see him let down his hair and get crazy!" Hm. Kind of a scary thought, actually. I can't imagine what that would look like. I wondered out loud if it was a repressed WASP thing, but we decided it was just personality at work. Whatever it is, it makes it very difficult for me to gauge how he's feeling -- which, I just realized, is a huge factor in the way I behave with people. I guess we all do that: adjust our exuberance, formality levels, volume, etc. to fit the person we're interacting with. Some people do seem to be more consistent in their behavior than others. But I definitely take my cues on how to behave from other people, which makes Scientist's relatively small range of exterior expression discomfiting.

I complained to Mathgirl that I hadn't met any of Scientist's people, while he'd met several of my friends, but she pointed out that that night was the first time I'd actually invited him to meet a friend -- Mathgirl herself met Scientist because he was helping me move. So I guess we're both hesitant. Not surprising, since it's still (argh) up in the air as to where I'll be come October.

Bar-blasé

My life is all about bar review, as if you couldn't tell, and today the bar story is about a youngish woman who studied corporations for 7 hours on Tuesday in preparation for the NY practice test, couldn't take it anymore at 11 pm and walked a mile home exhausted, woke up blearily at 8 am, went to take said practice test, and (1) estimates that she got about 3-4 points out of 20 (you need 10 to pass) for the essays, but (2) marvels that the most intense feeling she had about the whole thing was not anxiety, but boredom.

Seriously, I went to the bathroom halfway through and considered taking a 10-minute break to check email, because I was SO bored by the test. It's not that I find it easy. It's not. I didn't know the law well enough, and even when I did know the law, it was hard to apply it on the test. But the overwhelming feeling was one of boredom and resentment.

The other thing my life is about right now is finding funding, and I haven't done much on that front after an active few days here and there earlier this month. On Monday, however, The Turtle had an interview with the local bar association's foundation, and reported that it went very well, although the interviewer only makes recommends to the committee, who then in turn recommends grant recipients to the full Board. But she liked the project and the only problem is that our nonprofit status is pending, which may simply take us out of the running from the get-go. Fortunately, we'll probably find out about that by the end of next week.

The Turtle and I are going to see the pro bono manager at a large local firm tomorrow, basically for kicks, since she's already said the chances of getting funding from the firm are nil. But The Turtle thinks it'll be good to get the word out about us, and who knows, maybe a miracle will happen and the firm will give us money.

On a topic shockingly not related to the bar or funding, you may have seen that a few days ago, I linked to this blog post written by Joss Whedon. During one of my many mini-breaks yesterday, I delved a little deeper into the topic, and discovered there's been a big controversy about a soon-to-be-released slasher pic (or, as people have recently been calling it, torture-porn) starring Elisha Cuthbert called Captivity. You may have seen the ads for it -- I saw them on subway trains and, even before reading about the hullaboo, thought they were disturbing/effective. Well-done, even, the goal being to attract attention.

The film (which is by most reports not very good) is about the kidnapping, gruesome torture, and killing of the Cuthbert character, a model. The controversy was about the ads that the production company claimed had been "accidentally" released, which depicted four frames of Cuthbert labeled "Abduction," "Confinement," "Torture," and "Termination." There's a copy of it here, if you want to see it. (I did.)

I would never see any of the recent spate of "torture-porn" films (Saw, Hostel) and I would never watch Captivity either; the minimal torture scenes in 3 Kings, House of Spirits, and The Good Shepherd made me feel ill and bothered me for days, and the stuff I learned about in Tuol Sleng, a notorious prison during the Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia, haunted me for months. I can sort of understand why people make films like this and why people watch -- there's a rawness and primacy about absolute power used to hurt others that makes for an intense viewing experience. I remember the torture scenes in those movies with wincing clarity. They brought a menacing edge, a real fear to the stories being told about war and political unrest.

I guess there can be value to creating and viewing torture porn too, sort of like the value one gets from horror movies in general. I don't like being scared, but others do, and again, there's that rawness of experience, an exhiliration of sorts that comes from dipping your toes into the pools of darker human emotions.

Not having seen Captivity (it comes out in July, and apparently there will be no advance viewings) or any of the other films of that ilk, I can't sit here and make any judgments about their artistry. But I find the whole controversy extremely interesting. Where do you draw the line? Why did Stephen King say that he liked Hostel II, where apparently a young woman gets cut in half, but that Captivity disturbs him? Why did some people find American Psycho (in which the main character kills one of his a male victims with a bat and uses, among other things, a drill, some cheese, and a rat to torture a woman) brilliant while others thought it completely lacked all artistic merit? Are some types of otherwise gender-neutral torture more disturbing when done to a woman? Is the torture of women on some level more disturbing than torture of men?

It's all very icky and I don't like to think about it, but it's also fascinating. If you haven't heard anything about Captivity, its ads, or torture-porn, you might find it worth Googling too.

And that is all that has been occupying my head for the past few days. The End.

Barblue

Ack. I've officially crossed over into the anger/hatred/depression stages. I replaced the bargaining phase with hatred, since bargaining would be useless; any contract I made now with the devil about passing the bar would involve unconscionable levels of duress. Or something.

ARGH. I hate hate hate the law and I hate hate hate the bar. I also hate the people downstairs who are drunkenly playing the guitar and singing. Shut UP, downstairs neighbors! You own a condo! Stop acting like you're in college!

Last night, though, I was filled with sadness about the bar. (I'm also filled with sadness about the fact that I haven't seen the inside of a bar for weeks and weeks, but that is another story.) I went over to Scientist's apartment, we watched Breakfast at Tiffany's (which was just darling, darling), and then we got it on, and then I felt weird and weepy, but in a very detached way, like the way I felt when I took ecstasy many years ago and knew that I was physically tired but chemically perked up. Ah, my wild and wacky acting out period of... 2 weeks or so. Good times.

What was I saying? Oh yes. So I was feeling weird and weepy, but not because of Scientist, about whom I've been curiously calm and at peace with lately. Now that the anticipatory stress of graduation is over, I can focus on the fact that studying for the bar really, really sucks. Memorizing minute details and rules of law for hours every day sucks. Especially when law itself sucks.

So last night the overwhelming wretchedness of having to do something I dislike for hours and hours, every single goddamn day, swept over me like the tide and I felt pretty damn miserable. And the worst thing? Everyone keeps saying that it'll be over in a few weeks, which is true, but what's next? 2-3 years of being a lawyer.

Scientist, who was being sweet about it, suggested I do something fun for at least a little while each day, which was a good suggestion, except that when I thought about what would be fun, I couldn't think of anything. Which depressed me further.

Today wasn't so bad (and Scientist called me today on his way down to the Cod to see if I was feeling better, which was very nice), though after attempting and failing to do practice essays for a few hours, I had to call Miracle Gro on the Left Coast and get some encouragement. And lo, she made me laugh harder than I have for days, with this story: A guy friend of hers came over, drunk, and insisted she get into bed with him, whereupon he said, "You know, Miracle Gro, usually I look at you like I would a sister, but sometimes you look pretty! And then I want to sleep with you!"

Bwah hah hah hah hah! Hee hee! Hee...! Heh. (wipe eyes) Whew! Such suave, sweet seduction.

Dadtalk

Last Sunday was Father's Day, and I even spoke to my father on that day, but I totally forgot to wish him a happy father's day. They don't celebrate a separate father's day in Korea, that's my reasoning (there is a Parents' Day, for which I also don't send anything to my father -- I mean, they don't celebrate it here, do they, so I can be excused on that front too, right?). Anyhoo, the Korean Team flew back to Seoul last Tuesday, and one of the last things my dad said, which he has said a number of times during the past 3 weeks, was that I had made them all so happy.

I recently watched a House episode where House helps a patient (played by John Larroquette) kill himself so that the patient's heart could be transplanted into his dying son. John asks House, "What would you want to hear from your father, if you could hear anything from him?" House hesitates for a moment and finally answers, in one of those small, character-revealing moments, "You were right. You made the right choice."

That particular phrase doesn't do it for me (nor did it do anything for John's son in the episode, who asks, "What the hell does that mean? What choice?"). I don't need my choices validated post-choice, I need help in the pre-choice period. But "You make us all happy"? That might be a winner.

Sex and the Crimson City
(not safe for bigbros, obviously)

So the last three times I've seen Scientist, this is how it has gone: He calls. I miss the phone call. He leaves a message. I email or call back. We agree to meet up that night. Due to our schedules, we can't meet earlier than 9 pm. I go to his house. We talk for 10 minutes (optional). We have sex. It's great. He suggests in some way that I am welcome to stay over. I consider and reject the possibility, since I need my sleep. I go home. I sleep soundly.

It's not the healthiest of relationships, if by relationship you mean a series of interactions between two people who enjoy each other's company on multiple levels, with the potential for longterm sustainability. But ... it also seems to be working. I'm busy enough with bar exam studying and funding worries that I don't really want to be besotted with love and obsessed with someone, and I don't really miss him that much the 2 or 3 days between visits. (Hey, I already said it wasn't the healthiest of relationships.)

I'm sort of interested to see how long this can go on without one of us breaking and needing to talk about what it means. I'm also interested in seeing if I can be content with this level of interaction.

It'll be my own little socio-psychological experiment!

Enough to make you weep

For a change, something exterior to the sheltered whine-fest of a life documented on these pages can be found here. It starts off about a recent honor killing and spirals out into social commentary and then a call for action about the status of women on the planet.

What I love about Joss Whedon is that not only is he a creative genius, he is a principled, passionate advocate for change. And my god, does he know how to write. Somehow, he makes you believe.

Stages of grief about Barbri

Currently moving from denial to anger.

Denial: La la la! I just finished three years of law school, and I deserve some fun! Plllbbbbbt, Bar examiners! Barb Rhee? Don't know her. Funky name, though.

Anger: Such a stupid, stupid requirement! No lawyer needs to know all of this crap at once -- that's why we have a freakin' apprenticeship system, where the senior associates tell the baby associates exactly what to do! And there are books to refer to! Hate bar. Hate law. Hate New York. Hate Board of Law Examiners. HATE.

Bargaining: Just let me pass the freaking exam, please, please, please. I can't go through these freaking lectures with law profs who think they're funny and not pass the bar. Please let me pass, please let me pass, please let me pass.

Depression: I'm going to fail. There is no possible way I can keep all this information in my head. Why bother? I should just lie down and pour an entire bag of Lay's potato chips (the regular greasy kind, not the "healthy" baked kind) down my throat while watching the Project Runway marathon. There's just no point in trying.

Acceptance: I have to take it. I know. Once I take it, I'll be in a better place -- Esq.-land.

Running with the land...

... like a covenant! Or an easement! Or a reciprocal negative equitable servitude! Run, little restrictive covenant, run!

After essentially ignoring the Bar review class these past four weeks, I finally buckled down and started making flashcards and reviewing materials this week, and today, having spent about 9 hours on real property and mortgages, I can say with definitiveness: Barbri blows.

I thought I might sort of enjoy learning the actual law, instead of being bored to tears about hypothetical situations and laws as I was in law school classes, but -- no. I don't mind it as much as school, but as I was walking home on Thursday night after an unsuccessful four hours of trying to learn corporations law, I had the thought that I feel exactly about Barbri as I did about law school: it's intellectual stimulation, yes, but in the most bored and boring part of the brain.

I find law a complete and utter snoozefest, and there ain't no two ways around it.

In other news, The Turtle and I got our first piece of good news re: funding -- the one place he applied to wants to do a site visit and interview him (and maybe me). So they're considering us!

Which, ironically, gives rise to slightly mixed emotions from me, since I've been slowly convincing myself -- with total justification, after a number of conversations with people in the know -- that it's unlikely I'll get funding. I was kind of looking forward to moving to New York, actually. Of course, that means I'll get funding and stay in Crimson City. Naturally.
------------------------
Scientist news (not safe for bigbros)

Quick rundown of events: I'd seen him for a walk and dinner on the Tuesday before graduation, tried calling him, upset about impending graduation stress on Wednesday, got an email back from him that I didn't respond to because I was dealing with graduation. So he called last weekend and I saw him briefly last Sunday, for like, half an hour, after I broke my back and then realized I had to pick up stuff from campus. He graciously drove me there and picked up the stuff.

Yada yada. Okay. So this past Wednesday, we meet up, and without much talking, pretty much fall into bed. It was nice, but ... there was something missing ... what could it be? Hmm... affection, maybe? Yeah, that's it! That little thing! So I went home feeling weirded out and discontent and thinking that I really do need to break up with him. Because -- damn, not even an offer to take me out for dinner as congratulations for graduating? That is so not classy.

(On the other hand, it's possibly he was hurt by my implicit retraction of my invitation to my graduation party two Fridays ago. I'd mentioned it a few weeks ago, when I was feeling a lot more positive about him and us, and then just didn't say anything, even when he brought it up the Tuesday before graduation. Which maybe wasn't so classy of me. Scientist brought it up again a week ago, when he asked about how it went, and said, "I guess my invitation got lost in the mail." Yeah, it got lost all right. It's probably in the same sodden pile as my expired optimism and joyfulness regarding this relationship.)

Then last night, I go over to his place. I actually go and retrieve his Scrabble box from the shelf, because hi, a relationship is more than just sex, okay, and we've talked about playing before. But then... we fall into bed. And this time, he is kind of affectionate, and we watch some TV and hang out, and he seems sad when I say I can't sleep over because I have a lot of work to do the next day.

A relationship IS more than just sex. But that seems to be the best part of this relationship. And that is kind of okay with me. (As long as it's accompanied by affection and kindness and respect, anyway.) (Which I'm not sure it is.) I don't really need to talk to him that often. It's okay when we go out for dinner or go for a walk, but truth be told, conversation is kind of ... painful sometimes.

Who is using whom for sex here? And does it matter?

Ack. Past midnight. Time to sleep and perchance to escape questions about the recording system for deeds and mortgages for a few blessed hours.

Slow

The back is almost all better -- turns out that trips into Roadie-ville that turn into sojourns in Workers Comp-land are rather painful but short-lived. (The funny and brilliant BC, by the way, was the one who termed me a roadie when I dinged my back.)

I remembered, in my many hours of lying down, that this exact situation happened to a college classmate of mine last year, a struggling musician in New York who completely threw out his back lifting an amp and spent several months trying to live on disability checks while barely able to move. To which I say: Damn.

Being injured made me move very slowly the past few days, which was a little funny to me, since my mom last week observed that I tend to walk fast, often leaving her a few steps behind me as we trotted around town. Last night I went to dinner in the Italian district with the French King and his Queen, and I walked from the subway stop to the restaurant with small, deliberate steps. On the one hand, I thought, "So this is what it'll be like, being old." On the other hand, it was kind of nice, actually, to slow down.

My grandmother and great-aunt, whom I saw off today at the airport with the rest of the Seoul Team, move slowly, but with great vigor. These are not fragile ladies. Their draw in the genetic lottery gave them a good deal of strength and tenacity in these, the twilight years.

I say "twilight," but even as I write that, I doubt its accuracy. They are in their late 70s, but they seem hale and hearty, and, god willing, will remain so for another many years. My dad remarked last week that it had been 10 years since my college graduation. In 10 years hence, perhaps some of those hale and hearty folks who filled the RV O' Fun this month wouldn't be here anymore, he said. It was a morbid thought, though not meant that way.

At the airport, I thanked them again -- my aunt, my great-aunt, my grandmother -- for coming this far to be with me on graduation. My great-aunt hugged me with ferocity; my grandmother did the same. Just before they got in line for the security check, my grandmother held my hands in hers and just looked at me, smiling, wordless, full of emotion. I nearly teared up then, and then again as I stood there, waving frantically as they slowly got through security and periodically turned around to see if I was still there. They got further and further away, and smaller and smaller, but I could still see their wrinkled hands waving in unison again and again and again, until my dad, the last one to go, was a tiny orange-jacketed dot in the hallway and with a final wave, vanished.

When we were walking to the checkpoint, my aunt walked alongside me and sighed, "We meet and then we part. Meet and part." I answered in my kindergarten Korean, "That's life." I know, logically, that part of the reason I feel so strongly about the Seoul Team is because I didn't grow up with them, never had to deal with the frustrations of daily family life with them when I was younger. I met them as an adult, with an adult's appreciation of the brevity of life, with an adult's appreciation of rootedness and belonging. They never asked me for anything, and unlike the relatives I did grow up with, they're pretty low maintenance. They give me things; heck, when I arrived at the airport, my grandmother pushed a plate of rice cakes and fruit at me to eat for lunch. And so, with an adult's appreciation for unconditional love and generosity -- almost entirely one-way -- I can't help but be deeply, deeply moved in all my interactions with them, and feel more than a little like crying when we part.

The Roadie

I'll post something soon-ish about graduation and all its associated miseries and delights. I haven't done so yet because I threw my back out (mildly) on Sunday, trying to lift an amp. To be more precise, I didn't try -- I actually did lift it with one hand, up a couple stairs, thinking, perhaps, that I was actually a 250-pound man with a beer-stained t-shirt and large, hairy belly and the ability to lift 50-pound electric guitar amps.

In fact, I am not. My back recognized this when I put the amp down and complained, loudly and insistently, that I am actually a 112-pound Asian American woman with big dreams but small, weak arms and bad lifting posture.

I spent most of Sunday afternoon supine, as well as yesterday afternoon, occasionally stuffing potato chips down my gullet as I read Calvin & Hobbes cartoons and channel surfed. It wasn't bad. I could get used to being an invalid.

Anyway. That's why I haven't done anything significant the past few days since graduation. (It might also be emotional and physical exhaustion from graduation, too.) But the halcyon days of the pre-grad period are gone, replaced now by a welcome lack of stress about said graduation, but the continuing annoyance of trying to find funding and failing. After a number of conversations with people both in the know and not, it seems that this is going to be a quixotic task indeed, which means that corporate whoredom is looking more and more likely. But that's okay. Having had this small bright light of hope shine briefly into my life has forced me to be the cruise director, and a reminder that I control my own destiny, even through an ultimately failed attempt to do the directing, is a very good thing.

Hooded

I picked up my academic regalia today, all of which is so chintzy that they warned us in writing and orally that the dye in the fabric bleeds when it's raining or humid out. For this we pay a $75 rental fee. Dude.

As the Barbri evidence lecturer told us, law school graduations aren't like other graduations. You still have an exam to take, and you still have to go to class every day (usually for more hours since first year). So it doesn't feel like much of a finish. But when I pulled out the cheap polyester black gown with the fake velvet trim, and the extremely unflattering mortarboard cap, and the inexplicably designed hood, I actually felt a little something. I slipped that red hood over my head and arranged it on my shoulders and thought, "Wow." I was kind of impressed myself, looking at the deep V of the front and the drape of the hood in the back.

So strange, the outfit, and even stranger, the feelings it elicits.

Also strange -- telling Scientist last night that I didn't think we were compatible, feeling like we were on the verge of breaking up, and then going out with him tonight in one of our most comfortable and easy outings to date. Could things be more unstable? I think not.

Tomorrow the Mom comes, and then the bigbro/J1/The Nephew, and then the Korean team on Thursday morning. And then I graduate from this place, something I have had no time to absorb or reflect upon. It's never been a happy time here, and the end comes as it began, unceremonious, uncertain and unsure. But it's over. The French King wrote to me a few days ago: "...seriously, a heartfelt congratulations. I don't know anyone who (other than me) had to psychologically gut out grad school like you did. Bravo."

Snip snip

I finally cut about 4 inches of my hair off on Friday, after 10 months of letting it grow and grow and grow until the weight of it on my head drove me crazy.

The cut is very modest -- essentially, it's the same shape, just shorter, so that I can twist it up neatly for graduation. After next week, I think I'll chop it up much shorter and dye it some crazy ass color. Just because.

The whole business of girls cutting their hair drastically after breakups is related to control, I think. And while I haven't broken up with Scientist, I'm feeling progressively worse about dating him. Yesterday afternoon, after five days of being incommunicado, I called him, and after some chitchat, I said, "So..." He said, "So..." And then: "I wanted to call you this week. But I didn't want to be selfish. I thought maybe I should deal with my own issues without complicating your life with them."

Whatever. I saw him a few hours later, for dinner, and the whole time, I felt like I was on the brink of tears. After dinner, we went on a whim to a nearby pond, and parked illegally at the shop for the national park, and walked down to the water. Amusingly, at the head of the trail down, we saw a minivan and a suburban mom-type waiting by the gate; she asked, "Are you guys going swimming?" "Uh, no, just for a walk." "If you see my daughter and her friend, tell them to come back here, will you?" "Sure! You know... you're a very understanding parent." "Well, this is better than them doing drugs."

The pond was still and quiet. I dipped my feet in the water. Then, nervous about the parking situation, we trotted back. Sure enough, a police car was hovering around Scientist's car, but the officer was more amused than anything.

That was pretty cool. But the whole time, Scientist didn't lay a finger on me. And I, inhibited by his lack of demonstrable affection, didn't touch him either. And that was depressing.

Driving back into town, Scientist asked if I had some time or if I had to go back home. Knowing that Mathgirl and her husband were entertaining guests, I said I had some time, so we went to his place and... you guessed it. We talked. And by "talking," I mean we did a lot of wordless staring at each other and I gave a lot of monosyllabic answers while resting my head on my arm on the back of the couch. "I can't tell you how much it exhausts me to be having this conversation," I told him, and it was true -- every word seemed to cost a huge amount of energy, and I considered and discarded a dozen thoughts I probably should have shared but felt unable to.

Hopeless. I told him I felt frustrated, angry, tired, and hopeless. He said he didn't feel that way and asked why I did. Because I didn't see any change, any progression in his ... voyage of emotional self discovery. "I'm so close to throwing in the towel on you and never seeing you again, and doing the same for trying to find funding. Just moving to New York and getting the hell out of here."

You know, he had the gall to ask, "What would you do if I asked you to stay?"? What fuckwittage. "I'm not going to answer that question unless it's really being asked," I told him. "And you're never going to ask."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because it would go against everything that you've been saying about yourself. You wouldn't ask that because it would mean that you're committing yourself to something. And I haven't seen any sign of you moving toward resolution on that issue."

He spoke my name, and paused. And then: "I still feel the same way about you. I think you're an amazing person. I enjoy spending time with you. Especially when you're happy. When you're sad, you tend not to say anything."

"What would you have me say?"

"Anything! Things you've heard about or seen. Just anything."

I took that in for a moment before answering resentfully, "If you want me to entertain you, I'm sorry I can't do that right now."

And on and on.

After an hour and a half, he took my hand in both of his, as he always does. I curled my fingers around his. "Why are you responding to affection now?" he asked. "Because it hurts me to reject affection," I said. "You're a very good person," he smiled. I didn't. "I think you're saying that sarcastically," I said, "but it does hurt me to reject people." He put his arms around me and held me for a while after that.

I must enjoy the drama, don't you think, to keep doing this? As I told Scientist, his behavior doesn't make me doubt my inherent worth as a person, or my attractiveness, or my desirability. I completely believe that the problems stem from him (and that fact that his confusion has caused me to be anxious, causing him to be anxious about him causing my anxiety -- barf-o-rama, because now somehow it's my fault that he's anxious and unhappy?). I believe that he's being truthful when he says he enjoys being with me, etcetera etcetera. But I ... I think I've stopped enjoying being with him.

And yet I call. Am I just afraid of being alone? I haven't had a boyfriend in four years; I'm used to being alone. I carry my own mini-fridges. Is it because I don't want to go back to that state that I'm not ending this exhausting, unhappy thing with Scientist? I spent most of last night trying not to cry -- what am I still doing here?

Safe

Yes, I now have no outstanding conditions precedent to my impending matriculation -- my advisor gave me a big, fat A on my 3L paper, the script for a TV show about the thrilling lives of law students. Watch for it on a small screen near you!

So, it turns out that this semester was the best academically of the six -- one B+, two A-s, and two big, fat As. The A-s really should have been As, too, but apparently The Turtle counts class participation in the grading scheme, and that brought my grade down a third, which -- whatEVER. I put my heart into that clinical, and I know I deserved an A. The fact that The Turtle felt bad about giving me that minus? I don't care. He should feel bad. He knows what he did.

I found out that stuff about the grading today when I had my weekly check-in with The Turtle. We're both feeling discouraged about the lack of progress with the funding search. We put in an application last week to a local foundation, and if that doesn't come through, I think I'm going to throw in the towel. So I should know by the end of June, which is about as long as I can take the purgatory in which I am hanging.

I thought originally that I'd try to bargain with my firm about working 2 months this summer to earn what would be half of my salary for next year in this clinical fellowship, but I'm feeling pretty down about them too. Here's what happened there: I don't really know anyone at the office I'm going to, since I worked in two other offices last summer. So my only contact was the recruiting person. So I approached her and asked if I could talk to someone about funding for my project. She took it upon herself to ask some partners and came back with something about a "strict policy" about not funding such things, which, when I followed up with a phone call later, she admitted wasn't true -- there was no policy in place. She had just gotten the feeling that the partners weren't going for it. So I said, hey, I don't mind rejection, I just want to talk to someone directly, can you give me a name, and she responded, I will, just give me a chance to find out who you should speak to.

Nothing happened for a week, so I follow up with a gentle email reminder yesterday. Twenty minutes later, she writes back that she talked to the managing partner and that the firm decided they wouldn't fund my project.

I'm pretty pissed about this. When I'm asking for a favor, I want to be the one asking, not relying on an intermediary, for a number of reasons. It's not like she could have presented my project with any level of enthusiasm or information. More importantly, I want to be the one taking the responsibility of whether I fail or not, and of what kind of image others have of me. She completely stymied me in this because she asked me not to contact anyone until she got back to me. I realize there are some politics at stake here, but I feel disrespected and unheard, and that really ticks me off. God. The more I think about it, the angrier I get.

More evidence (as if you needed it) that sometimes? People just really, really suck.