Blogspot, King of Spirits.
When NYU requested a personal essay in its admissions requirements, a friend of mine chose to wax poetic on her superior personal qualities in the context of her rhinoplasty. The essay was entitled “n.j. in NJ.” It is a testament to her uncanny charm and striking intelligence that she got in anyway. Based on this preface, it may be odd when I say that she would make an amazing doctor, but such is the case. This summer, it’s time for her to apply to medical school, but she is conflicted.
The problem stems from her finances, as her pediatric nephrologist father will only contribute to the Med School war chest if she agrees to attend UMDNJ. It’s an excellent school, but Piscataway, the central-Jersey town where it’s located, is less than glamorous. And, as she puts it, she wants to maintain the illusion of being an Upper East Side princess. This means a brand-name school with a brand name bill that she’ll be feeling well after her ovaries become prunes. So when I said that the problem stemmed from her finances, I didn't tell the whole truth. It also stems from her pride.
I’m hardly one to judge. Despite my complete lack of experience in a non-research setting, I adamantly refuse to take a job that does not come fully equipped with at least health insurance or the bohemian veneer of poverty. This, of course, is declared in the name of perpetuating the delusion that I am hot shit / dedicated to my noble cause to educate the masses in the ways of science. Thankfully, my erroneous beliefs concerning my employability are probably the last vestige of a formerly-held battery of fantasies about life in New York. As this job hunt continues to render me mad, even that is eroding. Soon I will be whole. My awakening is almost Buddhist.
We all came to New York with preconceived notions of what urban life was like. Airing out my dirty laundry, I will admit that mine were heavily linked to Will and Grace. The depth of my ignorance was on-par with the sins of legions of would-be Carrie Bradshaw. My shame is great, but I suppose I find solace in having grown out of it. Some of those young harpies carry on their erstwhile search for their Mr. Big long after their best-laid plans for sex columnist glory have crumbled into an indentured servitude at a faceless publishing house.
When NYU requested a personal essay in its admissions requirements, a friend of mine chose to wax poetic on her superior personal qualities in the context of her rhinoplasty. The essay was entitled “n.j. in NJ.” It is a testament to her uncanny charm and striking intelligence that she got in anyway. Based on this preface, it may be odd when I say that she would make an amazing doctor, but such is the case. This summer, it’s time for her to apply to medical school, but she is conflicted.
The problem stems from her finances, as her pediatric nephrologist father will only contribute to the Med School war chest if she agrees to attend UMDNJ. It’s an excellent school, but Piscataway, the central-Jersey town where it’s located, is less than glamorous. And, as she puts it, she wants to maintain the illusion of being an Upper East Side princess. This means a brand-name school with a brand name bill that she’ll be feeling well after her ovaries become prunes. So when I said that the problem stemmed from her finances, I didn't tell the whole truth. It also stems from her pride.
I’m hardly one to judge. Despite my complete lack of experience in a non-research setting, I adamantly refuse to take a job that does not come fully equipped with at least health insurance or the bohemian veneer of poverty. This, of course, is declared in the name of perpetuating the delusion that I am hot shit / dedicated to my noble cause to educate the masses in the ways of science. Thankfully, my erroneous beliefs concerning my employability are probably the last vestige of a formerly-held battery of fantasies about life in New York. As this job hunt continues to render me mad, even that is eroding. Soon I will be whole. My awakening is almost Buddhist.
We all came to New York with preconceived notions of what urban life was like. Airing out my dirty laundry, I will admit that mine were heavily linked to Will and Grace. The depth of my ignorance was on-par with the sins of legions of would-be Carrie Bradshaw. My shame is great, but I suppose I find solace in having grown out of it. Some of those young harpies carry on their erstwhile search for their Mr. Big long after their best-laid plans for sex columnist glory have crumbled into an indentured servitude at a faceless publishing house.
posted by Byron at 11:15 PM
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