And suddenly, the rug was pulled.

I’m no longer assured of parental aid to finance my postgrad schooling.

Mom doesn’t want me going to the US next year, partly because of The War Against Terror, partly because she may not be able to afford the funding for two brothers taking Master’s courses at the same time, and partly because she doesn’t feel I’m ready. (“You’re not ready” is a phrase I’ve heard from my parents a LOT since I was a kid. It’s a major reason I had to move out.)

So here I am, with a pile of prospectii, course descriptions, admissions instructions, application forms, self-addressed envelopes, and transcript requests — and no certainty regarding my ability to pay for any of it. If I take the leap next year, and if I do commit to a one-year or two-year course, I will have to work through it, and pay my way with blood, sweat, and tears.

Well, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

But before forms are signed and envelopes sealed and mailed, one must take that integral first step: that of falling to one’s knees with Book in hand, and consulting the Master for direction and assurance.

This is going to be a challenge. Fun, fun.