The Unsubstantial Bubbles Of Citronella

I've had a chat with Advisor. He feels that if I want to pursue an academic career, I need some more time to learn to be more autonomous and independent. Basically, if he gives me a project, I'll go through it well and with very little external help, but I don't come up with my own projects. I agree with his diagnosis, and understand that if I want to stay in academia where I'll need to find my own ideas, convince interviewing committees and grant panels and whatnot of their value, manage my own research group and write my own papers, there is a number of skills I still need to develop.

We also talked more in details about what I am working on right now, and what I should focus on in the future, where my interests lie and so on. I am pretty excited about one project that another student has started and on which there would be plenty of room for me to jump in. It would probably be a real collaborative work with some members of my labs (I am mostly working on my own right now) and I could get a great leading opportunity (if I figure out how to take it), especially given that the initiator is going to leave the lab soon. Plus, it seems to be an area rich and new enough to be a fertile ground on which to develop my very own brand new ideas.

So, yeah. Great opportunities. Except that it means I am going to say another two years here. Six to nine more months than the fifteen that were planned. It's not that much that I wanted to finish my PhD early. It's that I feel trapped in a city I particularly dislike, which has very little to offer me besides a great lab and a dying relationship.

I think that "in high spirits" would be a very poor description of my mood right now.

On the other hand, Ben said it was increasing the chances he'd come and visit me — he gets free airplane tickets through his father, so money for once shouldn't be the issue, just time and... motivation. That's not nearly enough to compensate the bitterness, though.

I was merrily instant messaging away with Benjamin when, one thing leading to another, I found myself explaining to him that I had vaginism. Which I wasn't very comfortable doing. Except for the readers of these pages and members of the medical profession, I have only told seven people, including two boyfriends, over the course of more than five years. However, I figured that if a white coat on a total stranger gives me confidence enough to talk about my lady parts in great graphical details, then the general trust I have in Ben should be quite enough to justify I let him now I have this condition.

He didn't appear to be totally put off by my confidences, and was sweet enough to emit a few appropriate comments. I was responding to the last of his questions (about how long I've had the condition; the answer being "somewhere between forever and the first time I tried to have intercourse, given that there was no reason for me to find out before that age) when he went off line.

I hope that his computer imploded.

Or that Sweden was suddenly swallowed by one of these CERN-generated black holes.

Or that he had a heart attack.

Or that the Flying Spaghetti Monster abducted him.

Or, you know, something.

And I have already been punished for these thoughts, as I seemed to have somehow inhaled my water instead of drinking it. I am still coughing and hissing ten minutes afterwards.