I am utterly distressed.
It's all my fault and I know it. It's this fucking trait of irresponsibility that I've had my entire damn life, and once again, it's rearing its ugly head threatening to thwart my plans and destroy my life.
I am applying for a Master's Degree at X University and even though I've been in touch with one of the professors and I've sent all my paperwork, I still failed miserably at providing my letters of recommendation. Miserably. (Seriously, am I that unrecommendable?)
With ten days left before deadline, I had no choice but to contact the only teacher at the University where I got my degree whose email I had.
This man was my teacher for a little over three years. By the end he still thought I was Russian. He actually lost my final exam and failed me. By the time I received my grades and noticed the horrible red script that said I had to take the course again, I went and confronted him. He actually had the audacity to tell me that he hadn't lost anything, and if he didn't have the exam that must mean I didn't take it.
With no solid evidence that I had actually taken the test, except for a vague memory of the questions, I not only had to take the exam once more, but I actually had to sit through the entire course throughout the following semester. The exact same course, same book, same methods, same questions, same answers. I relished in the fact that every question I answered were his textbook replies. I made pretty damn sure by the end of the course that he damn well knew my name, nationality and the fact that I was the best damn translation student he ever had. I got full marks on that exam. Mas punto y estrella.
Then he became my thesis director. Why? Because I chose a literary subject, and he majored in literature, or something along those lines.
My director-approved thesis failed to impress the panel of judges and I was asked to start over. As I recall, they mentioned something about lack of direction.
Took me about a whole year to get over that one, emotionally I mean.
And now here I am once more, waiting for a reply from this man, the only one who I could contact in such short notice. Two days away from deadline. And I am hence, utterly distressed. He said he'd help me with the letter. He said he'd write it. Alright, those weren't his exact words.
When I first emailed him, secretly I was hoping that if he didn't remember my name, he would surely remember the title of my failed thesis. He chose it after all.
After that emotionally draining email I sent him where I humbly asked for his help on this one (surely he must at least feel a tiny bit guilty, I thought), I received his reply not two days after. I quote: "Ok."
I poured out my desperate soul on email and came quite close to begging him for his help and the answer I got was "Ok."
The worst part is... I believed him. I took his words seriously and I sincerely expected him to send me back that letter any moment. Any day now... Must be today. Maybe tomorrow. Check email. Fifteen minutes later, check again. Pace. Check again. Eat. Pace. Check again. I wasted one week waiting for him.
Last night I dreamt I was stalking him in the supermarket with his wife and kids, desperately seeking the opportunity to walk up to him with a knife hidden under my sleeve and ask him "Hey, professor. How's my letter of recommendation going?"
Today I woke up with a rash.
I think I'm about to rupture a blood vessel. A big one. In my eye.
Two days left. TWO. I already started on plan B.
What is plan B you ask me, O brothers?
Plan B, otherwise known as "Plan Begging" implies contacting the woman in charge of admissions at X University and Beg. With a B.
Beg to still be considered. Beg to be admitted. Beg to be given the chance to turn in the recommendation letters a little later.
That email is sent.
I already asked my sister to check my inbox in the morning for the reply that will most certainly be there. If the response is affirmative, she will be allowed to wake me up and we'll go on with our lives. If the response is negative, she is forbidden to make a sound until my eyesight has been restored and my whole body rash is gone. Then I'll eat myself to death. That's the plan.
Oh, and I gotta contact my friend in Benin and get me some Voodoo manuals.
Tonight, no amount of Vegeta will help me.
But I'll give that a try nonetheless.
It's all my fault and I know it. It's this fucking trait of irresponsibility that I've had my entire damn life, and once again, it's rearing its ugly head threatening to thwart my plans and destroy my life.
I am applying for a Master's Degree at X University and even though I've been in touch with one of the professors and I've sent all my paperwork, I still failed miserably at providing my letters of recommendation. Miserably. (Seriously, am I that unrecommendable?)
With ten days left before deadline, I had no choice but to contact the only teacher at the University where I got my degree whose email I had.
This man was my teacher for a little over three years. By the end he still thought I was Russian. He actually lost my final exam and failed me. By the time I received my grades and noticed the horrible red script that said I had to take the course again, I went and confronted him. He actually had the audacity to tell me that he hadn't lost anything, and if he didn't have the exam that must mean I didn't take it.
With no solid evidence that I had actually taken the test, except for a vague memory of the questions, I not only had to take the exam once more, but I actually had to sit through the entire course throughout the following semester. The exact same course, same book, same methods, same questions, same answers. I relished in the fact that every question I answered were his textbook replies. I made pretty damn sure by the end of the course that he damn well knew my name, nationality and the fact that I was the best damn translation student he ever had. I got full marks on that exam. Mas punto y estrella.
Then he became my thesis director. Why? Because I chose a literary subject, and he majored in literature, or something along those lines.
My director-approved thesis failed to impress the panel of judges and I was asked to start over. As I recall, they mentioned something about lack of direction.
Took me about a whole year to get over that one, emotionally I mean.
And now here I am once more, waiting for a reply from this man, the only one who I could contact in such short notice. Two days away from deadline. And I am hence, utterly distressed. He said he'd help me with the letter. He said he'd write it. Alright, those weren't his exact words.
When I first emailed him, secretly I was hoping that if he didn't remember my name, he would surely remember the title of my failed thesis. He chose it after all.
After that emotionally draining email I sent him where I humbly asked for his help on this one (surely he must at least feel a tiny bit guilty, I thought), I received his reply not two days after. I quote: "Ok."
I poured out my desperate soul on email and came quite close to begging him for his help and the answer I got was "Ok."
The worst part is... I believed him. I took his words seriously and I sincerely expected him to send me back that letter any moment. Any day now... Must be today. Maybe tomorrow. Check email. Fifteen minutes later, check again. Pace. Check again. Eat. Pace. Check again. I wasted one week waiting for him.
Last night I dreamt I was stalking him in the supermarket with his wife and kids, desperately seeking the opportunity to walk up to him with a knife hidden under my sleeve and ask him "Hey, professor. How's my letter of recommendation going?"
Today I woke up with a rash.
I think I'm about to rupture a blood vessel. A big one. In my eye.
Two days left. TWO. I already started on plan B.
What is plan B you ask me, O brothers?
Plan B, otherwise known as "Plan Begging" implies contacting the woman in charge of admissions at X University and Beg. With a B.
Beg to still be considered. Beg to be admitted. Beg to be given the chance to turn in the recommendation letters a little later.
That email is sent.
I already asked my sister to check my inbox in the morning for the reply that will most certainly be there. If the response is affirmative, she will be allowed to wake me up and we'll go on with our lives. If the response is negative, she is forbidden to make a sound until my eyesight has been restored and my whole body rash is gone. Then I'll eat myself to death. That's the plan.
Oh, and I gotta contact my friend in Benin and get me some Voodoo manuals.
Tonight, no amount of Vegeta will help me.
But I'll give that a try nonetheless.
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