Writing a prospectus

I know this is what I want to do. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt. Well, I mean, without much doubt. But yes, this is what I want to do. This thing is in my grasp and all I have to do is reach out there and ... write a prospectus.

U.S. grad schools ask for areas of interests, personal statements and letters of recommendation. My French school asks for a prospectus. I knew I needed to complete a proposal but somehow I didn't equate proposal with prospectus. Where was my brain?!?

Migration and development. The influences of flight and those who flee towards us. Project TOKTEN. Remittances. Receiving country immigration policies. African Diaspora. The role of print and visual medias. Oral tradition. The American dream. Intro. Literature Review. Research hypothesis.

Why couldn't my parents have raised a child who liked chemistry?

This would be easier if I had millions.

I understand that most people's financial needs are rather basic. I get it. I understand. I pige. I'm only going to owe these people about $60,000. I'm a tiny pebble at a big rocky beach. I'm a peanut. But I'm an international peanut!!! Gosh, haven't you ever heard of a foreign bank account. All I want to do is pay my bill, using my money from my bank account that just happens to be in France! I will pay the international transactions fees. I will give you my swift code. What?!? You've never heard of a swift code? What What What??? You don't know the currency of France? You've never heard of the EURO???

Ok, fine. I understand only accepting money that comes from an American Account (bank #1). As much as that ticks me off, I understand. I also understand only accepting the U.S. dollar (bank #1 and #2). But don't tell me that you have no international clients (bank #2), because that's just a lie. You're a HUGE bank with INTERNATIONAL offices. According to your website, if I were to move to Singapore, you would still be my friend AND allow me to bank from that location (granted, only if my account balance was over a certain undisclosed figure).

Lady at bank number 2 was getting mad at my questions. Fine; I'm sure most questions she receives are rather easy to answer. But at least confirm with your supervisor that you're correct if I'm asking you difficult questions. The end of out conversation went something like this:

-So if your bank was in Germany, you couldn't pay with German money. That's the same as if you were in France, you couldn't pay in French money. We only accept U.S. money.

-Me (frustrated): Do you know what the currency in France is?

-No, I do not.

-Me (smiling): Do you know what the Euro is?

-I'm sorry Ma'am, but I don't know the answer to your question. Is there anything else I could help you with today?

...I admit that I was bit mean, but at least she could have stopped pretending to absolutely know what she was talking about and confirmed with a supervisor.

When I'm a billionaire, I'm only dealing with Swiss accounts(although they're not always what they're cracked up to be...).

Dinner Crasher

Thinking I was going to a picnic, I crashed a lovely dinner at a lovely apartment of a lovely, successful VP of a very important and lovely global corporation. 5 courses. Porcelain plates. Real silverware. Awkward conversation. At least I showed up with cheap ice cream for everyone!!! The Fund for American Studies did not teach me how to handle dinner crashing.

Too bad I didn't establish great rapport with the hosts because I really liked them....

Happy Bastille Day

4th of July French style. Good Times. Lots of Fireworks.

Faux-Chinese Here Too

France has take-out; it just doesn't come in those cool red cardboard boxes. France has also never heard to General Tso's Chicken. It's a pity really - I think they'd like it. At least I would (right now).

I live here.

Somedays I just want to eat brownies. I just want to do nothing. I just want to sit on my sole chair in front of my lappy and surf the net.

Somedays I want to scream at the ceiling. I want so desperately to vent my frustration. I yell at the tiny cockroaches, then sit down and tell them my life story for the millionth fois.

Somedays I relish living in this great city. When it's raining. When it's sunny and beautiful. When I find something quirky like an american penny or a intricate doorframe.

Somedays I think I'm in love. Somedays I am depressed. Somedays I am beyond happy. I'm not perfect. I'm not always motivated. I try. I give. I take. over and over again. I am a hypocrite. I am a saint. I yearn for the country when I'm in the city. I yearn for the city when I'm in the country. I'm never satisfied. Usually curious. I hate asking for directions. I find smalltalk difficult. I am seen as stuck-up; rude; mean; gifted; intelligent; fascinating; too giving. I'm often insecure. Organized religion has messed with my mind. I talk about myself when I'm tense (brain freezes and I don't what else to say) and talk/ask about others when I'm relaxed (I want to know things and about people). Somedays I cry myself to sleep. Somedays I fall asleep snuggled and totally content. In the morning, I love the daylight flooding through my skylight. I love crepes and paninis and stinky cheese and creme fraiche and cooking lentils. My life here is a glorious mess of human imperfection and I LOVE IT.