Wow. Today I feel like shit. Yesterday I had to hand in my pitch for a profile I have to write for next week. I brought it into class feeling really good about it. I totally scored an interview with this guy Dylan Ratigan who is the anchor for the business talk show "Bullseye." I met him at Kourosh and Kristen's wedding where he gave an interminably long toast to the happy couple. He's really quite the character. I also get the impression that he's a misogynist of the first order. But he's incredibly successful and a big talker. I think the profile will be good. Anyway, when we all get to class he asks who didn't get to read last time. Like a fool, I raised my hand thinking - God, I have a great pitch. This will be really good. Especially since I had had lunch with my teacher last week and thought it went pretty well. I'm in the middle of reading my other New Yorker professor's book about writing narrative non-fiction and I pretty much followed his advice, I thought. Well, I start reading it and he just goes insane. Completely eviserates every sentence. Tells me it's a mass of cliches and hates everything about it. Then when I've finished reading it, he says - 'oh, this is your pitch. I guess it's not as bad then.' By this point it doesn't matter because the cold sweat is dripping down my sides. I can smell it. Everyone is looking down and around and everywhere but at me. Then he has everyone go around and tell who they're going to profile. He skips over me saying 'well, we already know who you have.' It was beyond humiliating. Then we had a break and everyone was looking at me with pity but still avoiding eye contact. It was terrible. Terrible. I've never been torn to shreds like that before. Especially not with anything I've written.

God, I feel like total shit. Then we had this in class assignment to write about this video clip from 1928. An old black man singing an old timey song "Little Log Cabin Down the Road." It was very weird watching it since it felt very staged and all these little kids were all gathered into the film to dance around while he sang. They were clearly not that into it. There were tons of animals and the whole scene was bitterly poor- everyone in sack cloth and patched overalls. Barefoot. It was terrible because he gave us ten minutes to write a narrative about this little scene. And then went around and made us all read what we'd written out loud. I, still feeling shitty, dreaded this little exercise. He was a little kinder to me this time. Said he liked the spooky ending. It was a bit of contriteness for his earlier pillaging, I thought. He also gave much praise to the one kid in the class who I think writes really overdone, overripe prose. This guy is his favorite. I think his writing is just not that great. I would read it somewhere and wince. But what do I know? Teacher is non-fiction editor for the New Yorker. I'm merely a miserable j-school student.

Tonight I have my National Affairs class for which I handed in a story about high tech contract workers. I'm petrified that it will also get ripped to pieces. But at least i won't have to read it out loud. Or at least I don't think so. This one will only be published in the in-class newspaper and distributed to everyone. Oh wonderful wonderful. Everything is moving so fast. The program is over in four months and I am petrified of finding a job. Plus now I get to contemplate what a shitty writer I am.

Tomorrow afternoon I am meeting with this new therapist. And I really can't afford it, but I think that with Sam going back to SF I'm really going to need some support. Unsurprisiningly I feel like a huge fat pig on top of everything. I'm afraid to discuss this particular issue with the therapist because I know she is going to start pestering me about being anorexic which I absoutely know I am not. Oh blech. Poor poor me. I think I should go clean the house. Maybe that'll make me feel better. I took Isaac on a long walk up to Fort Tryon Park. It's pretty up there and the snow is melting and it's quiet and feels very far away from New York City. Still, I didn't feel particularly peaceful. Isaac has been annoying me lately. Being totally needy and always wanting too much attention. I'm worried about how this will go once Sam has gone and I have to deal with him all alone. I don't have time to take him on hour long walks every morning just to tire him out. Maybe I'll start having to wake up super early just to fit it in. I won't be able to deal with him being so over the top all the time. Right now the long walk has tired his ass out and he went for his afternoon nap in the bed. He needs a bath and I just washed the sheets.

As if all this wasn't enough: I found my first white hair today.