Bloody hell.

Wrote Driscoll right before I left to remind him that I’ll be gone for the next two weeks and to give him what I had thus far. He (finally) wrote back and told me “Oh by the way, you don’t need a 16 or so to pass. You need an 18. Have a nice day.” Uh, yeah. Only one person has gotten an 18 for any paper in my programme all year (and we all know that Alice is considerably smarter than I am). What really gets me is the fact that Driscoll could have told me months ago. In fact during the conversation in which I was told I would only need a high 16 (or better yet a 17) I remember specifically telling him that I didn’t think I could write an 18 and him agreeing that it would be exceedingly difficult for me to do so.

So that’s a wasted year. I haven’t decided yet if I’m even going to bother trying. To be perfectly honest I think it would look better for me to be able to say that I chose not to write my dissertation since I was about to go on and do a second MPhil than it would be for me to have failed my dissertation. But that’s just my opinion, and I probably shouldn’t think too hard on it right now. I might start screaming. Again.

And I made it OK. Was behind a perpetually screaming baby, but I survived. Going to Tucson tomorrow to get my eyes checked (which I desperately need) and to have meals with various ex-profs. Basically going to try and not think about either this failed year or the next year of pain which is waiting for me when I get back to Glasgow. Ra.


“C’mon abuse me more I like it”
~Silverchair – “Abuse Me” (the theme song to AP American Gov)

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