My fucking grant is done. 24 pages of closely spaced fucking genius.
NOW I understand what all the fuss is about.
And what a fucking disaster it is. The project is great, worthy and deserving of funding (obviously). I wonder if this grant, this white elephant, this stillborn, this Wormwood of a grant, reflects that.
I tried REALLY hard on this, but I am second guessing myself all the way to the proverbial bank right now.
I am a neuroscientist. A good one. I've got over a decade at the bench and the skills to prove it.
I am not a computer scientist, an oncologist, a clincian, a database administrator, or indeed a tissue bank pathologist. These people will be reviewing my grant.
...I hope they don't laugh. Seriously. That's my biggest concern.
No one gets funded first time, even new PIs. I fully expect this grant to bounce back, but I want it to bounce back with a half-decent score and reviewers comments. We can address these comments and submit something truly epic next cycle - at the end of the year. I dread this bouncing back with a big fat, federal "Fuck Right Off" stamped on it.
I'm actually nervous of showing it to my collaborators in case I get a "What the fuck is this piece of shit?" in reply. Fuck my ego.
Anyway, all I have to do now is write the bibliography (EndNote? That's for pussies who don't like typing!), finalise my budget, and write the justifications for the budget, the personel and the number of Principal Investigators (who between them conributed about 30% of the writing).
And my IRB.
And my data sharing plan.
And my human subject approvals.
...wait...this fucker isn't dead after all!
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