Right now I am trying to master the art of writing a Letter of Intent to get into grad school and wishing I had warmer socks.

Last night I went to a late show of La Dolce Vita at my neighbourhood rep theatre. I somehow managed to get a BA in film without seeing it, and it was brilliant, but why does every “great film” of the twentieth century seem to revolve around dudes who use women? They are generally beautiful women, who are made objects of the male gaze and they are beautifully shot. But whither my canon?

It’s weird. When I’m sitting in the theatre, waiting for the movie to start, I can see my statement of intent perfectly. It’s well-written, it’s concise, it’s specific and intelligent. When I sit down to write, I find myself totally incapable of phrasing anything and I wind up writing this bizarre personal biography thing.

Well, Alex has a lot of homework this weekend, so I will have few distractions and can hopefully have it finished for Monday morning. Given my first letters of reference are due in like, three weeks, I’d better.

I have never been so scared of anything before ever. (Except maybe a dead mouse, but that’s another post.)