I have had to go through loads of bureaucracy for various life events recently. Applying to university, applying for funding, applying for a student visa, applying for identity documents, registering to vote through embassies (I’m a dual citizen so I get to do many things twice, including voting for two Presidents this year).
Getting my student visa alone cost several liters of my sanity, or whatever sanity is measured in. It must be some sort of liquid measurement though, right?
God, I can’t even tell this story because it’s so fucking boring. No one wants to hear or read about someone’s visa application issues. Even though when you’re in it, it feels like an eventful, heart-pounding debacle, but recounting what happened is mind-numbing.
I couldn’t get some very specific code from a very specific institution that only exists for providing this very specific code, which only exists for getting this very specific type of visa, and I am writing about it? How perfectly fascinating. Allow me to hang myself from my fingernails.
I will just say that a complication caused a delay in the processing of my visa, and that getting all the shit together for the visa to successfully be processed in time for the start of my PhD program was hellish in a really boring sort of way. I had to postpone my flight, which was like, “AAAAAHHHHH FUCK YOU SHOWER OF CUNTS” on the day it happened, but “yawn” when I write about it in a fucking blog.
I’m finding that most adulthood problems are like this; they bring you near death, but the way it happens is so mundane.
I have to reapply for the funding of my PhD once a year and it’s always a confusing meltdown. “WHAT DO THESE NUMBERS MEAN? WHY DIDN’T I RECEIVE ALL OF MY THIRD INSTALLMENT? I HAVEN’T EATEN A PROPER MEAL ALL WEEK. I CAN’T PAY MY RENT OR TUITION AND I’M GOING TO BE EVICTED AND HOMELESS AND IT’S SNOWING OUTSIDE.”
…Quietly fill out a form.
An excess of events like this in recent months this has broken me. Now whenever I need to apply for anything that involves trying to figure out my tax information, or providing references, or some other information that is not as immediately obvious as my birthday and address, I stop and think of all the things I’d rather be doing than this.
I would rather vacation in Rapeville, Democratic Republic of the Congo. I would rather watch all the seasons of Heroes in one sitting. I would rather snort a line of wasabi. I would rather hold a dollop of horseradish mustard on my tongue for several hours. I would rather fight on the front lines of an illegitimate war that unilaterally flouts international humanitarian law than have to fill out another such form.
