Medical Flipout

My doctor flipped her shiznit inside out. She was trying (badly) to hide her annoyance, but try as she might, she released her inner bitch and let me have it for quitting the Remeron. She moved from treating me as a fellow doctor (I think she forgot that I am in GRAD school, not MED school; stupid bitch), to a retard, to a child, and finally back again to her patient in a matter of about 10 minutes. So this is how it went:

Doc: so, how are you?

Me: well... (intro and extended explanation of symptoms)... and so I decided to stop taking it.

Doc: holy f^*#!ing shit motherfu%^er bitch face whore!

Okay, so she didn't exactly say that but I could read it on her face. In reality she just got pretty annoyed, adopted a fitting tone and proceeded to tell me "YOU tell ME what to do. YOU tell ME what exactly it is you want to do." Each time I tried to do what she asked me, she would interrupt with "you're telling me you don't want to take the medication that worked for you after you tried many others that didn't work, so now YOU tell ME what you want to do."

Eventually, after doing this about 4 times, she goes, "this is descending into an argument and I don't want that to happen."

WHATABITCH! What I really wanted to tell her to do was "how about YOU take some prozac or some vicodin and shove them up your every day twice a day and then call me in a couple weeks, you bitch" but instead when I finally got in my two cents I said, "I want to sleep again, and I don't want to get fat doing it." A polite statement topped off with a slightly bitchy frosting. I was pleased with myself because it shut her pie hole.

I think it is a wise idea not to piss off a psychiatrist too much. However, I really wish my beloved Dr. Winters would just take me back under her wings and just give me sleeping pills like she used to instead of sending me to see one huge bitch after another.

Psychiatrists are such con artists, really. They claim to be able to determine what "is best for you as an individual" with each patient they see. What this translates into is a gruelling process of trial and error where they just give one drug after another like a child playing Duck Hunt for the first time. Shoot shoot shoot - never mind aiming - just keep shooting and eventually, you may get one. An ordinary doctor is just as capable of doing that. As a matter of fact, my Muzza is just as capable of doing that and she is not a doctor, just a Muzza. Why do I have to pay this bitch $90 for 15 minutes to tell me what a magic 8 ball would? True, insurance pays 80 of those dollars, but the point is that she does not deserve making, on average, 360 DOLLARS AN HOUR for this bullshit!

Anyway, the end result is that my Ivy League educated doctor has given me yet another pill that is very very bad for you in large amounts (some people take 1000mg for schizophrenia and bipolar disorder) but that seems to be working to put insomniacs to sleep at lower doses. I fell asleep last night on only 25mg, which was a pleasant surprise because I am worried about the possibility of "involuntary facial movements" and sudden death that goes along with higher doses.

Lucky me, I get to go back to see her next Thursday. I can't wait.

Are You There Smirnoff? It's Me, Esa.

When my doctor told me she had a possible answer to my sleeping troubles I was so happy. She handed me a prescription for the drug Remeron, which she said was used as an antidepressant but does not have any of those annoying side effects like dry mouth, depression and inside-out-penis. What a remarkable drug! I was skeptical at first and asked what then was the reason that I hadn't heard of this drug before. She said it was very common for people to experience a gain in weight taking Remeron (aka Mirtazapine) and that since Americans have come to terms with the fact that they're losing the battle with the bulge, they're less likely to agree to take something that'll add on a few pounds. Well this was actually an even greater thing for me since I've been underweight for so long. My bones are literally falling apart under the weight of my gorgeousness.

So anyway, I took the Remeron and it was remarkable. I was sleeping 9 hours a night every night for the first time in my life. I was awake and alert during the day. I could focus on the things I was doing. I was calmer. I felt better. And I ate more. And more. And more. Actually, I don't think I ever stopped eating after the first few weeks of taking the damn thing. But that wasn't so much of a problem; actually, K-Money tells me that it's been better when I have lunch with her because I don't just sit there and watch her eat but I actually eat too.

Unfortunately, the problem eventually got a bit out of control. I would eat my stomach full and feel "stuffed" but I would still be hungry. And lo and behold, for the first time in my life, I could see an appreciable weight change. Since I started working out until pre-Remeron, I gained about 6 pounds. This was all muscle located in my shoulders and upper body. However, this took about 3 years to gain. Imagine that: 3 years to gain 6 pounds. And Adam still can't understand why I want to do steroids?! Anyway, the point is that now I am just delightftul and completely lickable up there in the shoulder and chest region as you would all know. My four-pack finally made its appearance and I was working on adding two more down below to complete that six pack and then toning and shaping my way into Mario Lopez stature when the Remeron struck.

For the first few months I was on a low dose and nothing seemed to change weight-wise. But then my doc thought that since I was tolerating it so well, I should prolly up the dosage and then is when disaster struck. In about 8 weeks, I gained 10 pounds. However, those 10 pounds did not exactly go towards the addition of more man candy but took up residence in a nice little ring structure around my tummy. Try as I may, the thing would not budge.

Now being brown it is inevitable that I will one day have a nice round tummy. It will happen. No matter what. All brown men will get a big brown round tummy. However, at 25 and single, I do not think this is the right time to handicap my potential romantic encounters with a big tummy. So I stopped taking the Remeron.

Stopping Remeron was like shooting myself in the face. There are no side effects to suddenly stopping it, but the sleep has gone. I have tried everything in my power to fall asleep but without help from my friend Smirnoff, or Absolut or sometimes if I am really happy, Grey Goose, I just cannot sleep. Over-the-counter sleep aids are also not helping. So basically, I am worse off sleep-wise than I was before I used the Remeron because back then at least the OTC stuff put me to sleep.

Anyway, luckily I have scheduled an appointment to see my doc tomorrow. I shall tell her of all of my troubles. She will likely scold me for my bad behavior and say, "you could do with a few pounds, I don't see why you're so upset about the weight gain." I will then take off my shirt and say, "if you were a 30 year old hot man, would you lick me here?" and point to my spare tire.

I will let you know how that goes.

Christmas and the Pope Suck

Yesterday was Christmas and although it was not white, it was beautiful out because the temperature was not below livable conditions and the sun was shining brightly the whole day. We had dinner at Abena's and played Taboo. Fun times. However, I have decided that I officially hate Christmas. Not because of any religious reason. And not because it has lost its meaning either. But because it's a holiday. Why, oh why, do people like holidays so much? Everything closes for Christmas and the damn bus and train run on "Sunday schedule" so the few things that are open can't be reached. So if you don't really have anything to do, you must sit and watch one episode after another of Real Housewives to kill the time. So, overall, Christmas sucks. Kind of like New Years, Easter etc. but more so because more places are closed for Christmas than for any other holiday.

Also, this past week Benedict that senile idiot was allowed to talk again and once more he has been spewing rubbish in between his incoherent stutters. This time he's calling on humanity to protect against "destruction of himself", and describes the urgent need to save ourselves from homosexual acts likening the struggle to saving the environment and endangered species. This is of course based on the idea that a man and a woman procreate, but two men or two women don't. The idiot forgot to mention how he plans to save humanity from Catholic priests who not only REFUSE to procreate, but spend their sexually deprived lives touching little boys in their naughty areas. Why do people like this live so long?

My favorite article on the issue can be found here: http://www.dailysquib.co.uk/?c=117&a=1608

I'll also copy and paste it below. Some lols for the hols:

Pope 'Spreading Fear' of Catholic Priests
December 24th, 2008
by Alexander VI

ROME - Italy - The Pope has been condemned by his own clergy for arguing that mankind needed protection from homosexual paedophile Catholic priests much as the rainforest needed protecting from environmental damage.

They usually prey on unsuspecting choir boys in the vestry, they are well known for grooming young boys with sweets and promises of Jesus' penance.

Yes, the Catholic priests who have vowed celibacy are a threat to the worlds church congregations and must be stamped out.

"Buggery has been a tradition that the church has closely guarded for many centuries. It is strange that the Pope seems to be railing against this Catholic tradition. Catholic priests are some of the most perverse, debased individuals on this planet. I have seen some of the most degenerate deviants tremble in fear when in the presence of a Catholic priest, because they know that they are nothing compared to the priest in abhorrent deviancy," a Vatican source told the World Priests Federation Newspaper.

The Rev Felcher Arbuthnot, vicar of St Felchinton’s Church in Putney, southwest London, and founder of the pro-Catholic Priest Inclusive Church movement, said: “I am extremely disappointed. This is not much of a Christmas message. This will not change anyone’s mind. Homosexuality, paedophilia, buggery and debauchery are a church tradition which has lived on for thousands of years.”

The pope who was a member of the Hitler Jugend brigade when he was a child, is well known for conducting dark rituals within the catacombs deep under the Vatican.

"Obviously the Pope is trying to change the image of the Catholic church as a cesspit of base perverse behaviour to one of a more civilised image. I'm not sure whether this PR stunt will work. I mean look at his face. It's a picture of evil and satanic debauchery that brings fear into everything it gazes upon," Max Clitford told the Sun newspaper.

*********

GAY in NEPAL?!

Prolly not a good idea, right? But Nepal's Supreme Court says it's okay to be gay in Nepal. Really? Ya... really. And you can get gay-married in Nepal too...

It's okay to be gay in NEPAL

Hindus are better than Mormons

Mormons suck

Jesus hates Mormons

Catholic priests are going to Hell

Goodbye Schnookies

Yesterday at around 2:30pm CST, Schnookies entered kitty heaven. This entire ordeal has been playing out for over a year now... 13 months, to be exact. It began when Schnookies attacked Megan's roommate Kimberly quite savagely, and then turned on me when I stepped in to end the fight. By the time that hullabaloo was over, both Kimberly and I were bleeding and bruised. I have no idea what triggered the attack, because Schnookies has always been an extremely loving cat, and she was always so friendly to strangers. As a matter of fact, I was constantly worried that one day I may forget the door open for a little too long and she'd get kidnapped by someone who was drawn to her friendliness. So needless to say, this erratic behavior caught me way off guard. It turned out to be one of many such episodes. She was turning even on people she had known and loved, like Adam. When my roommate Ben moved in, I had to confine Schnookies to my bedroom for the two months he was here, and once in a while I tried to let her out, but she always went to attack him. She would scream and flail her long-clawed arms so hard that even I was afraid of her.

After Ben left I resolved not to get another roommate because I didn't want to have to confine Schnookies to my room. It made me sad to have her living in there, all day, by herself. So for about a year I was paying 450 dollars extra per month, just so Schnookies could be free. But soon enough this became a problem and I finally decided to get a new roomie and put Schnookies back into the room for the long term. I put up an ad in a craigslist forum asking for help from anyone who may be familiar with feline behavior, and I got some very good feedback. What Schnookies seemed to be suffering from is called Feline Redirected Aggression. This is a rare psychological illness that occurs when a cat becomes aware of another cat close by, say the neighbor's cat that Schnookies liked to look at from a chair by the back door, and is unable to defend her territory from this cat that she can see but can't interact with. So she redirects her aggression to humans.

I went ahead and booked a ticket to Hawaii a few months ago, knowing that Megan would be able to handle Schnookies just fine while I was gone. This would be my first vacation in about 15 months. Megan is the only person Schnookies doesn't seem to mind, maybe because she took care of her as a kitten for two weeks that I was gone. Anyway, when Jenny arrived, I decided after a couple weeks to let Schnookies out and see how she handled the new person. To my surprise, Schnookies was just fine with her. No problems at all. Perhaps she had gotten used to her smell and the sound of her around after two weeks of being here. So Jenny agreed to take care of her while I was gone. Problem solved, I thought. Fast forward to Wednesday when I got a call while working on my lab meeting presentation. Jenny is screaming outside the apartment, where she is standing bleeding with her friend Christina. Schnookies has gone crazy again. So, no more chance of Jenny taking care of her while I'm gone.

I figured euthanasia was unavoidable at this point. I could not bear to leave her alone in my room for 10 days, only broken by once-daily visits form Megan to change her litter and food. That would drive anyone insane, especially a cat that loves open spaces. Worse yet would be to put her in a shelter; she would never be adopted by anyone and would live the rest of her life in a cage. So I made the appointment for Saturday at 2.

I felt this overwhelming sense of guilt from Wednesday night straight through to now, as I type this the day after. The problem with having to do this was that Schnookies LOVED me, and she was very loyal to me. As a matter of fact, she was almost obsessed with me. She always had to have me within sight. If I showered, she wanted the door open. As I cooked, she would sit on the stairs or just outside the kitchen to watch. When I watched TV, she would be nearby, if not on my feet. Every evening when I came home, she would either be by the window waiting, or come rushing to the door as soon as I opened it. We peacefully coexisted in my room for all the time she had to spend in here. When I called her name, she would respond with a meow. And I had trained her not to use her claws when she played with me because they would scratch me. She knew very well how far she could go with her playing. With the exception of her rare outbursts, she never harmed me. And so my sense of having betrayed her has been great and at times overwhelming. But when all is said and done, it is something I had to do. I can support an entire family in Trinidad for $450 a month. To think I threw that away for so long just because my cat was acting crazy may seem equally crazy to the casual observer. In the end, I did what was best for Schnookies and for me. And unfortunately, I have to live with the consequences. Included in those consequences are these extremely guilty feelings that perhaps, on some level, I murdered a loving, loyal pet so that I could take a vacation. I know that this is not true and that eventually, this had to happen, but for now the idea still haunts me a bit. Perhaps it would be worse to not care at all; with that thought, I console myself.

My mind still hasn't gotten used to the idea that she is no longer with me. Every time I open a cupboard or closet, I close it thinking, "Schnookies will jump in here and ruin everything if I don't close this." Each time I enter my apartment, I look for her running to greet me. It makes me sad all over again when I realize that she's not here to do any of those things. Time will heal that wound, I hope.

The folks at the Humane Society of Missouri - where I took her for the procedure - were nothing short of AMAZING. When I walked in, they took my information and directed me to a room. Megan accompanied me as my driver and shoulder to lean on. We walked in and they asked if I'd like to deal with the payment before or after, and when I chose before, a gentleman came and took my credit card and then brought the bill for me to sign. All the while, they wore sombre, but compassionate, faces. He offered his sympathies for my situation.

Next, the vet and an assistant came in and told me what to expect. I signed the euthanasia consent form and they took Schnookies away. They explained they were going to administer a sedative, and then attach a catheter to her arm for the euthanasia drugs. They told me they would bring her back in about 15 minutes and then I could have "five minutes or five hours" with her if I wished. They said to take all the time I needed. I was, needless to say, crying throughout the whole ordeal. They gave me tissues and kind words.

When they returned with her, she was very sleepy and she was wrapped in a towel, with just her little head and front paws sticking out. They warned me ahead of time that upon death, some animals undergo a muscle movement that causes their legs to stretch out as if they are taking a last breath. They asked if I could handle that sight and I said yes. However, the towel was going to prevent most of that from being visible. She looked very peaceful and at ease. I scratched her head and she purred. The vet told me she gave just enough drugs to calm her, but she could still hear me and see me. So I told her that I loved her and then gave the okay to administer the drugs. Within 30 seconds, the vet checked her heart beat and said very peacefully, "she's gone." And with that, my Schnookies had breathed her last. As I cried, the vet asked if I would like a paw print of hers, and I said sure. She smiled and said she'd be sure to mail me one. Above the call of duty, I thought and turned around to get my coat. What I hadn't noticed when the vet brought Schnookies back in was that, as my back was turned and my mind focused elsewhere, the assistant had placed a small stuffed animal and a letter on the chair. So when I was ready to leave, I was greeted by this soft grey kitty with a pink nose, sitting on an envelope. I asked if it was for me and she smiled and said yes, and something along the lines of, "we know this is hard for you and wanted to do whatever it took to make it easier."

Beamer rescued Schnookies from a box of kittens out in someones yard way out in the county. He brought her to me and she enjoyed two full years of love and good company - more than what her siblings likely could ever dream of. So altogether I am grateful for the time I had with her and know that there was no other way around this end. She went peacefully, purring as I scratched her head and her little ears. If there is such a thing as pet forgiveness, I have absolutely no doubt that she will forgive me for what I had to do yesterday. I hope that I will never have to go through such an ordeal again.

Prop 8U

I would like to add a proposition to the California ballot, which I will name proposition 8U. It will be similar to proposition 8 "Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California" except it would say:

"Only marriage between a good-looking (wo)man and a good-looking (wo)man is recognized in THE WORLD."

This is because I do not believe ugly people should be allowed to get married. I personally hate ugly people, and the worst thing we can do for the world is allow two ugly people to get married and have fugly babies.

I realized this when I went to the facebook page of a "friend" of mine and saw that, because she is a devout, loving, Allah-fearing Catholic, she supports proposition 8. Unfortunately, it turns out that she is also ugly. I thought this was only an external thing but when I saw her stance on the proposition, I soon realized that she is ugly both on the outside and inside. Luckily, she is not yet married (nor do I imagine she ever will be, unless she meets a very kind, blind man some day) so we still have time to save marriage. This got me to thinking about all the things we actually agree on when it comes to marriage. We both agree that marriage is sacred and we both agree that we must protect marriage. How we will protect it, however, is where we differ. She wants to protect marriage from gay people. I want to protect marriage from ugly people. And on this difference, I have divine backing.

I know I have divine support because I know that Allah hates ugly people. How do I know that Allah hates ugly people? Because he made them ugly. If he loved ugly people, he would have made them gorgeous. But Allah evidently loves gay people. This is clear because he made them fabulous. How many straight people do you know that are fabulous? Right, I thought so. As you can see, this logic is irrefutable.

To this end I urge everyone to support me in the future when I create proposition 8U and ask you to stand with me to protect marriage and the human race from God-forsaken, ugly, fugly people. Thank you, and may Allah continue to bless us all. And if you're ugly, may Allah start to bless you in some other way, like with money or something.

I am worried about Barack

Yesterday I had the profound pleasure of listening to Barack Obama speak live here in St. Louis. This man is the closest thing my generation has had to MLK, JFK or even Ghandi. Yes, I said it. Barack Obama is my new hero. I didn't start out on the Obama wagon, but this man is amazing. Inspirational is the word that comes to mind. My favorite part of his speech, a part that really struck a chord with me, was when he said:

"Some of us had grandparents or parents who said maybe I can't go to college but my child can; maybe I can't have my own business but my child can. I may have to rent, but maybe my children will have a home they can call their own. I may not have a lot of money but maybe my child will run for Senate. I might live in a small village but maybe someday my son can be president of the United States of America."

In the simplest terms, this is what the American dream is. That here in America, everyone has the opportunity to work hard and better their circumstances for themselves and for their children. And no other politician has ever been able to talk the talk AND walk the walk in the way that Barack Obama has. I love this man. I really, really love him.

But I am worried. Something that really disturbed me yesterday was the complete lack of security. When Biden and Palin came to Wash U for the vice presidential debate, they shut down every street their motorcades passed on. They closed off the campus. They emptied adjacent parking lots and buildings. They set up roadblocks. They took every single security measure one can imagine. So, with this in mind, my friends and I were sure there would be lots of security. Lo and behold, when we finally got to the front of the line, we were greeted by a set of metal detectors that WERE NOT BEING USED. They just shuffled us through the metal detectors that had been TURNED OFF!

Now I have read about this before. In late February, the New York Times published an article "In Painful Past, Hushed Worry About Obama" where they discussed the problem of security for a presidential candidate whose race has ignited a firestorm of threats against him, for starters. With the militant right-wingers shouting "kill him" and "off with his head" at Palin Klan rallies, you'd think that walking into a large field a few hundred meters from this man would require some form of screening. But no. Nothing.

Michael Shaw, writing for the Huffington Post, is also a little concerned. He describes the same scenario we witnessed yesterday: lines stretching for city blocks are easily cleared when security is thrown out the window.

These are dangerous times. We have hope for the first time in 8 long, tumultuous years. We cannot afford to have that hope snatched from us because of sloppy security. I will wait for 10 hours in line if I have to, so to Barack's security people: please, do your job and stop this nonsense.

Time to Sleep

For those of you now joining, it has been over an hour that I have been here laboring in my attempt to undo the sins of neglecting my child, aka my Bloggie, for over three weeks. I think that this marathon posting session has gone quite well, and when I read the posts tomorrow, I will be as surprised as you about just how many random, distinct thoughts I was able to come up with during my mental diarrhea session. Please scroll down about four posts below this to begin reading what tonight has had to offer. I shall see you again soon. Allah bless.

I am Getting Tired... of Joe Lieberman

This marathon posting session is wearing me out. But this is the price I must pay for not posting a single thing in three weeks. So on Thursday evening Wash U hosted the Vice Presidential debate, and I was lucky enough to be able to find myself on campus to stalk Joey B and Sarah P. We actually lucked out and chose a street to stand at where their motorcades passed on their way to the debate hall. This was a lucky choice because they have several routes available and at the very last minute the route is revealed to the local police manning the intersections, so no one could provide any information on where we should stand in order to see them. The entire operation was quite amazing. Biden stayed downtown, and by most guesses so did Palin. So to shuttle them from downtown to the campus, they shut down every freakin street - including sections of highway - declared a no-fly zone in the near environs,(so I was told by another bystander) and had a helicopter follow each of them from above every length of the way. I didn't see either one as they whisked by us because I was stupid and was too busy trying to capture the brewhaha on my camera, which only picked up flashing lights. YouTube capture mode my ASS. Megan, however, who was standing right beside me, saw them both. Biden waved. Palin didn't. Maybe it was my 5ft x 2.5ft "SHOW ME CHANGE" sign that upset her. Oh well.

The highlight of my evening came about an hour before that motorcade-viewing event when Joe Lieberman, shamed Senate D-Lister (and D don't stand for Democrat here buddy) walked in through the D-list entrance that students who won the lottery to attend were using to gain access to the debate hall. I got my very own chance to heckle him and heckle I did. "Joe! Come back to us!" I shouted. He turned around to face the handful of people standing around the area and looked at me. "Come back from the dark side. We miss you. Obama misses you. He wants you back. Come back Joe, come back from the dark side!"

And you know what he did? He didn't ignore me; instead he laughed quite heartily and waved. It was definitely one of my prouder moments. I could have simply booed or jeered. But Joe Lieberman, being the Judas that he is, must be so used to jeers. It would be like throwing water balloons at the ocean and hoping you could get it wet. What he is probably not used to is a good, heartfelt heckling. And he acknowledged me, rather than ignoring me.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I am pleased that 25 years ago Muzza chose life, because today I can say that because of that choice, I was able to heckle Joe Lieberman in person.

But really, that sort of thing is protected speech in this country. No cop - and there were many around - moved an inch while I did my dirty little deed. God Bless America fo sho, yo.

Nothin But The Benjamin... and the Grants

For the first time in my life today I have held a US one hundred dollar bill. This was very exciting. I have bought several things in my life worth over a hundred dollars: my phone, my ipod, my camera, my computer, my freedom from the Williamstown Police Department etc. However, I have used a credit or debit card to pay for each of these things and on the rare occasion that I've paid cash for something around the 100 dollar mark, I've paid for it with a bunch of twenties. Having five twenties does not carry the same joy as having one Benjy. So how did I come by my Benjy?

Well, I finally have found me a roommate. Yes, someone will now pay half of my rent for me, allowing me to leave the poor house for the first time in about a year. The feeling of financial freedom has corrupted me so much already. Case in point: roomie arrived this evening around 5:30pm. By 10:30pm I had charged $30.00 to my credit card, with nothing to show. Food and drinks. And the sad thing is that I had dinner at home. Maybe someone is gonna come bail ME out if I could just find a way to spend around 700 billion more. Anyway, my point is that roomie paid me her share of the rent in cold hard cash. One Benjy and seven Grants. Who knew Grant was on the fifty? Who knew there was a fifty?! Not I.

Anyway, to celebrate my first real genuine Benjy, I have decided to document it by taking a picture of it and posting it here in my Bloggie. So I set it on my coffee table ontop of a magazine and snapped away. But upon reviewing my picture, I noticed something intruguing. Thanks to the remarkable and brilliant Williams College marketing team, I have Williams memorabilia everywhere. And so, as I snapped my Benjy sitting proudly on my coffee table, so too did I snap my Williams alumni magazine. And I got to thinking about what the real value of this picture was. It was my Benjy, which today is valued at 100 dollars, and by the way things are going will be worth two Canadian cents by next week, but also, my Williams connection. Somebody, somewhere, paid $160,000 so that I could be a Williams alum. So the true value of that picture is actually $160,100.00 which is pretty insane. Okay, I am a dork.

Itsy Bitsy Spider

A few weeks ago I was on the metrolink on my way to a destination I shall not here disclose when a woman entered the train at the Skinker station and took a seat in front of me. She seemed to have known the man who was sitting next to her because she immediately began speaking to him, and he to her, even though she was carrying a book, and even though every other time I've seen her on the train she has been intently focused on the book she was reading during that particular week. This woman is a serial reader. She reads a different book every week. Perhaps she may read a different book every day, but since I only take the train to this particular destination once per week, I only see the different book every week. There is no reason to believe she is not changing books every 15 minutes, even. But a weekly change is most realistic to someone like me, who took over a year to read Rushdie's Midnight's Children, which I then claimed as my favorite book, but this has nothing to do with my point.

The woman sat in front of me. She spoke to the man. They were engrossed in their conversation. But as I looked ahead, I noticed something strange on this woman's back. There was a little spider sitting quietly just around the area of her shoulder blades. Now I am terribly afraid of spiders, and I was wont to scream like a little bitch and run away crying, however I was in public, and if being a brown bearded man on a train dangerously close to the anniversary of September 11 wasn't a bad enough thing, I decided that perhaps I should not take the screaming route. So I looked at the spider and it had not budged. However, it had the potential of moving at a moment's notice, and if it decided to, it could go anywhere. Anyway, the spider was clearly a boy spider, so I am going to refer to "it" as "he/him" from now on and occasionally I will call him by his given name, Spidey. So Spidey was about one quarter of an inch from one end to the next, and he looked very gross.

As I sat there, with my eyes fixed on him, his eight eyes perhaps fixed on me and everyone else around him, I contemplated what I should do. Should I reach over and squish him? First of all, that would have been gross. He would squish all over my hands, and I would have spider guts all over me. Secondly, my squishing him would require me to make contact with a complete strange middle aged woman on a train. It could even be misinterpreted as a caress. She may be offended, but even worse... no, much worse, she might enjoy it and try to get some more. So then I wondered, maybe I should tap her on her shoulder, sufficiently far away from Spidey, and say, "excuse me ma'am, but you have a spider on your shoulder blade." This, however, I realized could then result in a panic on the part of the woman, who, in her panic, could end up throwing her dirty, creepy, crawly, eight eyed monster onto ME.

So after weighing my options, I decided that the spider was, in many ways, a reflection of myself. Here I was taking a trip on a piece of public transportation that I was not necessarily fond of due to the tendency for me to encounter unpleasant things during my journey. Likewise, Spidey was trying to get to his destination also, and to do so, he needed to make use of his own form of public transport: a middle aged woman, and would encounter anti-spider terrorism in the form of large human beings trying to squish him for simply choosing to live his life and not be ruled by fear (of being squished). This was still worth it to him because he has a wife and 10,000 children waiting for him on the other end of his journey. After thinking of it this way, I sat contentedly in my seat and said/did absolutely nothing.

And I felt good about myself.

OMA

Oh. My. Allah. I have not posted since September 12. This is completely unacceptable and I do apologize. However, at the moment I think I will make up for this lack of posting by unleashing a wave of verbal diarrhea (or as we spell it in the Queen's English diarrhoea) in successive posts until I get so tired, I pass out. So here goes.

I have not posted for nearly a month because Ramadhan has kept me busy. I was fasting all day, then going to the masjid on evenings for dinner and prayers, and then coming home and trying to drink as much water as I could before it was time to do it all over again. When you have to drink large amounts of water across small amounts of time during the night, all that really happens is that you drink, pee, drink and pee more. There's no time to blog. Alas, Ramadhan is over and now I am here again, reaching out to you, my sympathetic audience, for your love.

To be honest, I miss Ramadhan. I miss the routine, the masjid, the free dinner, the feeling closer to Allah. I even miss skipping breakfast in the morning. Today, I was in a hurry for work because I woke up around 10:00am, and I was on my way out when I realized, "damnit, I didn't have breakfast." I was so disappointed that I had not in fact eaten at 4:00am as I had become accustomed to, and was now forced to, by a matter of habit, to eat something before leaving the house. It is these little things that make me miss Ramadhan. That, and the fact that Allah is just a lot more benevolent during Ramadhan than say, during any other ordinary month like Shabaan. He said so Himself, no kidding.

Anyway, that's it for that. As promised, I must now write another post. Look up ^^^

Sad Picture

The image to the left is of a child laying in the streets of Warsaw sometime in the 1940s, dying. It is the picture I promised to show you last time. I have borrowed it from a fellow named Martin Frost who has it here. I highly doubt he has the sole rights to it and cannot bother to track the owner. I need to use it for this post. Anyway, I learned of Jewish ghettos, a good example of which is the Warsaw Ghetto apparently pictured here, in my Jewish Studies 101 class with Sarah Hammerschlag during my senior year at Williams. When I was writing a paper for the class, I went online to read a bit more about the conditions under which Jews lived in 1940s Europe. I came across this picture of this little girl laying on the streets dying. It is one of the saddest images I have ever seen. For one, I adore children. I think children are wonderful little creatures that deserve all the love and affection any society can lavish upon them. Nothing makes me happier than to see a happy child, and nothing enrages me more than to see a child being abused. Secondly, I have this weird thing about death. I think that people deserve some form of company in their final hours, and think it extremely sad for someone to die alone. So when I came across this picture of this tiny child curled up, dying, alone, you can imagine that it made me very sad.

I think the image represents a powerful lesson for what can happen when we as a society begin to dehumanize people. When I was young, one of my cousins decided she'd major in history in high school. I thought, what a strange choice. Why would anyone major in history? She tried to explain how important history is, and how mankind has always repeated history, over and over, and if we cannot learn from the past, the future would be a dark place. I didn't buy it at the time, but as I grew older, I began to understand what she was talking about.

When the Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and others hold their conferences denying the Holocaust, they're in effect shooting themselves in the foot. More and more when I read the papers and listen to the news, I am realizing that there is a growing distrust of Muslims and Arabs here in the West. As a matter of fact, Obama's Muslim connection, albeit very weak (his father, who left the family early in his childhood was a Muslim before leaving the religion) has been used against him publicly. Of the dozens of times I've heard the topic addressed, only once did I hear anyone say, "so what if he's a Muslim?" It's becoming increasingly acceptable to publicly scorn anything Islamic in America. And if we as a society are not careful, maybe images like this one may not be a thing of the past, but, Allah forbid, a thing of the future.

Oh Ramadhan, How You Complete Me...

I received a letter from Islamic Relief USA a few days ago. The organization is part of a worldwide agency that seeks to alleviate poverty in various parts of the world. I usually send my zakaat (obligatory annual Islamic tax on savings which goes to needy causes) to them, so they have me on their mailing list. In it, Anwar Khan, the general manager, writes:

"I remember while on assignment in Mali, the children sat quietly in over 100 degree heat with no coverings over their heads. When they ate, they ate quietly, 10 children sharing one bowl of oatmeal and two pieces of meat. No child fought with another for food. Each child licked their fingers, making sure they ate every grain of oatmeal from that bowl. These children were lucky to get a meal that day. Thinking of how children here bicker over food while these poor children in Mali ate with grace and dignity had a profound effect on me."

I think that for about 335 days of the year, it is easy for me to take for granted the things I have. I tend to take basic things for granted like clean, fresh water, a comfortable place to sleep; breakfast, lunch and dinner and how many ever in-between snacks my heart desires. This may sound like a somewhat cheesy cliche, but for most of the year, I really don't think about these things. However, for 30 days each year, when bound by religious tradition, I cease to eat or drink (or, dreadfully, curse and gossip) from sunrise to sunset, I become a lot more aware of what it is like to go without these things. So when I do break my fast in the evening, it is with great humility and gratitude that I look at my plate of food and my glass of water and think, "wow, I am lucky." It has also helped me to become more sympathetic to the hungry person. I personally would never say no to a hungry person requesting food. I deny people money all the time; I don't think it's necessarily wise to give a street dweller cash because you never know what they're going to do with it. But I'm very likely to buy anyone who asks a sandwich, or a piece of fruit or something, because I know what it feels like to be truly hungry, or thirsty. I've put a link to the charity in my links section, so hopefully when this bloggie makes it big, people will go and see what it's about.

Now fasting isn't only about feeling hungry and sympathizing with those that are. The main idea of fasting is to develop self-restraint. I can easily fake a fast; no one would know if, when I come home during the day, I shovel down a meal and head back to work. Or if I woke up at 9 and had a huge breakfast. So the point of the process really becomes a personal one; between you and your maker. Or for atheists who find some good in fasting, between you and nothing. Either way, it fine tunes the self discipline and the self restraint. Yesterday I almost got into a huge shouting match with my coworker again, but I said, yo, I am fasting. I might as well go over to the break room and drink me a good big glass of water than yell obscenities at you. So in the end, we were able to discuss our issue in a civilized manner. Lucky for her, because the last time I just cussed and yelled a lot. So I'm learning to curb that kind of gangsterness and ignorance as well, which is good. And I feel much better resolving a problem than resorting to simply overpowering her with my loudness/lewdness.

So these are the gains I make from fasting in Ramadhan. As a matter of fact, I think they are so universally useful, that (Allah forbid) if I should ever cease to be a Muslim, I would probably still fast a bit now and again. It makes sense that Ramadhan happens every year though, because as with all good lessons, one tends to forget... a reminder every now and then works well.

Next time: a horrible image that has stuck with me forever and why I don't ever want to forget it.

Fasting is hard, yo

Ramadhan started September 1 for me this year, and I've been less inclined to write than ever. I say it started "for me" because, like everything else in the Muslim world, there is a great degree of difficulty in choosing one day and abiding by it. I chose Monday, but my mosque chose Tuesday. This is a very difficult thing to explain to a non-Muslim reader, but it has to do with tradition versus, well, reality. Tradition says to look for the new crescent moon on the 29th of Shabaan, the month that precedes Ramadhan. If you see the crescent, the next day is Ramadhan 1; this is how a lunar, rather than solar, calendar works. If you don't see the crescent, then the next day is Shabaan 30, and since Shabaan can only have a maximum of 30 days, that means the following day is Ramadhan 1. But reality says that in America, your Judeo-Christian boss does not give a shit whether you see a moon or not. They want to know, will you be at work or not? And they don't want to know at 7:30pm on Sunday that you won't be there Monday because of a religious holiday, as happens at the end of Ramadhan. So you have to plan things ahead. Some wise Muslim scholars, realizing that it does not conflict with core Islamic principles, have decided to fix the calendar ahead of time based on astronomical data. But other scholars do not like this "innovation." These scholars also like to wipe their asses with sand when they shit. Given my penchant for toilet paper, I also predictably enjoy the convenience of the fixed calendar, so Ramadhan for me began on Monday. Whatevs. Allah knows best.

Anyway, so it turns out that having to wake up for breakfast at 4:00am and then not eat or drink (or curse!) again until close to 7:30pm is more draining on me than I thought. First of all, I never realized what a HUGE bitch I can be when deprived of caffeine. Luckily, after a week of no caffeine whatsoever, my body has adjusted to not enjoying its usual two cups of coffee per day. My body has however not adjusted to the fact that Gunjan still exists, making caffeine deprivation the second hardest challenge of Ramadhan thus far.

In reality though, I thought fasting would help me be more productive, but this has not exactly panned out. Massa predicted this; that smart neuroscientist that he is! He told me he didn't see how it would be possible to concentrate while fasting. The brain needs glucose, he said. I assured him all would be well. I figured that with no lunch break, and no time to waste preparing coffee, drinking coffee, cleaning my mug after coffee, and thinking about how good it feels to have had the coffee, I would have much more time for work. Instead, I think of preparing coffee. I think of drinking coffee. I think of looking at my mug when there is just a small ring of milk around the inner base, where coffee once flooded. And I think of how coffee used to feel in my tumtum, as I listen to my tumtum growl and say, "feed me; why are you doing this to me." So I guess I was wrong and Massa was right. This is not the first time this has happened.

The next time I get on here, I shall educate you a bit about fasting in Ramadhan and what it's all about. Also, we'll discuss whether I, an otherwise irreverent and somewhat "bad" Muslim, have gained anything from fasting. What's there to gain? Stay tuned and you'll find out...

I really am getting old!

Thanks to the stress of my prelim (round 2), I had been up late for many nights over the past couple weeks studying. I started snacking late, eating lots of sweet and fatty foods, and going to sleep on a full stomach. Eventually, I started feeling fatter. My jeans felt a little more difficult to get into, and it hurt like a bitch to pull them off without undoing the top button; something I have done all my life. I hoped that maybe, there was a possibility that all my jeans shrank when I washed them last. However, on Wednesday I looked at myself really well in the mirror and lo and behold, I noticed that I am beginning to develop a spare tire. My stomach is beginning to poke out a bit. It seemed to me that my love handles were about the only thing on me that were well-defined. So I went to the gym and weighed myself, and believe it or not, I gained FIVE pounds in less than two weeks! And those five pounds were sitting right on my waist.

Now to me, there's nothing wrong with having a few extra pounds. Especially on men, a little extra weight can sometimes be a good thing; men don't need to be slim and slender to look good. A bit of a gut is easily overlooked if a man has well-defined arms. However, when you're small like me, a tire around the waist looks TERRIBLE. You run the risk of looking malnourished and just plain screwed up. As a matter of fact, five pounds is approximately four percent of my total body weight so this is quite a gain. Back in the day, I could do anything and not gain weight; I could eat anything at any time and the scale wouldn't budge. All through college, I ended most nights with a sandwich in the snack bar before bed.

As such, there is no clearer sign to me that I am getting old than this sudden drop in my metabolic rate. Because I am complicated and have all of these complexes, I fear getting fat. This is mostly tied into my fear that getting fat would make me less attractive to someone I may be attracted to as well as my correlation between fatness and unhealthiness and hence death.

As I was walking back from the gym, I saw this guy who works in a store on Euclid. He is friends with a friend of mine, and so I had been introduced to him and have sort of talked to him a few times. Although he seemed very friendly, I always thought that he acted really awkwardly around me, and it sort of made me feel weird until one day he confessed to me that he has a huge crush on me. I was very flattered, although the feeling was not mutual. I felt a bit embarrassed, but I was still happy to know and now I see his awkwardness in a different light. Anyway, so as I was walking up Euclid after firmly establishing that I am getting fat at the gym and feeling a bit blue about it, this guy passed me. I said hello, and the customary quick "how are you?" I was expecting the usual, "good, how are you" to which I would reply "good" and he wouldn't hear it because he would have been past me by then, but instead he replied, "better now!" with a smirk. For the first time in my new fat life, I felt good about my physical appearance.

Anyway, now that Ramadhan is here, I am hoping that my daytime starvation combined with nighttime exercise and protein drinking will help me both lose the fat and gain some muscle. We'll see how that goes...

I'm Back!

My dear loyal readers, and by dear loyal readers I mean Chris, I have been MIA for a while. This is because of the extremely stressful process of partially re-doing my qualifying exam, which felt more like doing an entirely new qualifying exam, which felt like shitting out a frozen porcupine, but the good news is it all ended yesterday and I PASSED! Yay!!! I am officially a candidate for the PhD in molecular cell biology. In other words, I can now continue life doing what I was doing before, but without a gun to my head. This is a great relief for me, because given that my parents have a very good retirement fund planned, that fund being me, I need to do well in life. No pressure.

Now time to continue my life. However, from all emotional indicators, my life isn't as peachy as I think it could be. This year when I turned 25, I felt rather blue and depressed about it. First of all, I turned a quarter of a century. That is a milestone, I think. However, I didn't have that much to show for 25. And while some people who tried to console me used the usual educational achievements as the "things" I had to show, those types of things were not exactly the yardstick by which I measure success, per se. I think that it is a good thing when people do well in school and progress further educationally, and that such achievements do mean that the person has had some amount of success, but I am not sure it means anything if you haven't done any good in your life. I'm not one who usually measures a person's worth by things like where they went to college, or IF they went to college because I'm pretty sure that there are as many things interesting about someone because they didn't go to college as there are about someone because they did. Anyway, so I was blue about turning 25 and people consoling me about my "achievements" didn't help because to me, when I am lying on my death bed, seeing the afterlife floating towards me, I am not going to be calling out to my diploma to save me. I figure that in order to lay dying and not feel absolutely horrifyingly desperately F-ed, I need to be able to look back on my life and know that I had done good things. That somehow, because of things that I did, someone, somewhere, who is not related to me, has had a better life.

Now don't get me started. I seriously lack good things to look back upon and it's beginning to carve a little hole in my soul. Hence my turning-25-depression. So I pledged to myself that by the time I have another birthday, if Allah spares my life to see it, I will have something to look back upon and at least be satisfied that the hole in my soul is slowly closing. Now I recognize that "doing good" is all relative. Some people may consider giving a handjob to a homeless man in the park doing good. I mean, if you think about it, there aren't that many people willing to do it, and it would probably make the man happy. But this is not what I mean. I am looking to provide longer lasting happiness; the equivalent of a daily handjob, in my previous example. So I responded to a craigslist ad seeking an "intern for a nonprofit". I figured, hey, if they're a nonprofit, they must be doing good. They need someone to research grant opportunities and do office work part time. It's an unpaid position, which is great, because I want my payment in afterlife points and money tends to nullify afterlife points sometimes.

It turns out the nonprofit is an established organization called "Doorways" that provides housing and medical care for people living with AIDS. Perfect! I have an interview next Thursday, but the woman accidentally responded to my email address with the words, "good candidate, me thinks...", so I get the idea they think that at least on paper, I'm a "good" candidate for the position. This should also make for some very interesting blogging, if I do end up a part of that institution. So this is where my life is headed and hopefully, next year at the end of May, my soul will be less porous.

Somebody Got a New Phone...

... and it wasn't me! It wasn't anyone I know either. So how do I know that somebody got a new phone? Is it because statistically speaking, as I am writing this, somebody somewhere in these Great States will get a new phone? No. It's because I have been inundated with a barrage of calls at the strangest f-ing times from a wide variety of numbers. We've all been on the giving and receiving ends of wrong number dials before. It's not a new thing. But few have had to deal with the stress I am currently undergoing because some hoodlum got a new phone.

It all began around Sunday night/Monday morning when I was sound asleep in my bed at about 12:53am. My phone rings and I do not recognize the number so I silence it. Now my new phone is quite cool because you have the option of leaving the alarm on with the ringer off. So if a call is received, the phone will not ring, but it will ring to wake you up in the morning. Thanks to Shabana, however, I no longer use that option because she has filled me with the fear of not being in contact should there be a night-time emergency. As such, I always sleep with my ringer on now. And that means sometimes being woken up at odd hours by Beenie calling from Paris, but it's a small sacrifice. Well, it WAS a small sacrifice. Back to Monday morning. At 12:53 I silence the phone, only to be disturbed again at 12:54 by the same number. No message was left, mind you. So I silence it again, thinking if even it is a friend calling from a land line, at least they'll leave a message and I'll check it right away. No message. I fall back asleep, and lo and behold, bitch calls again at 12:57. I pick up and she is speaking some incomprehensible rubbish. I inform her that she has a wrong number and that it is ONE THE F@*K AM and do you know what she did? She HUNG UP ON ME! I was actually polite. I did not actually use the F-word. I said, it is 1 am please stop calling me. She did not even apologize!!! What a whore!

So what did I do? I called that bitch back at 6:00am and then hung up. One point me.

Several other phone calls came throughout the week, each from different numbers. Another middle-of-the-night set of calls came on Thursday at 3:30am. This time I picked up and made moaning sex noises until the man on the other end hung up. He too received a 6:00am call. I automatically wake up at 6:00am every day for a few minutes. I am weird. But it is working well with my new phone calling lifestyle.

My most interesting call happened this morning around 9:00am. It came from an 888 number so I figured, maybe it's Trini calling with a calling card or something, better pick up. I pick up and it's an operator assisted call... from a CORRECTIONAL FACILITY!

Oh. My. Allah. Who the hell has a new number close to mine with friends who call almost exclusively after midnight and now, from jail?! I didn't bother to accept the operator assisted call because I really didn't want to be explaining to some felon that he has a wrong number.

Did I mention that I am scurred?

Accent on de Trini

I have officially lost my accent. My beautiful Trini accent is no more. Or so I have been led to believe. It used to be foreigners who could not tell the difference between one English accent and another who would tell me they thought I was American. They were usually Chinese or Korean. That was okay, because I probably would not be able to tell the difference between Chinese and Korean when I heard those languages spoken; and they're completely different languages! But recently American people have been telling me I sound like an American. And this hurts. Not that I don't like the American accent; I just love my Trini tongue more. The richer Trini kids who tried to be cool in school always spoke with slightly American accents. So after spending 2 years in Canada between the ages of 5 and 7, my accent was permanently changed to a more "upper class" Trini accent, though truth be told we were from the gutter. So it may be true that I never had an authentic Trini accent to begin with, but at least I had one. Why does it matter?

Well, in America, having an accent can be an advantage in some social circles, especially educated ones. In Kentucky or Alabama, people will just not understand you and may lynch you. But in more educated social circles such as university campuses or the East and West Coasts, some people enjoy hearing words said in a different accent. This leads them to listen to you more if you speak with an accent because the mundane act of listening to someone speak is spiced up a bit when there's an interesting accent to go with it. Of course this depends on the accent with which you speak. Jamaican accents are almost universally accepted as the accent of a pot smoker who is totally chill; probably not good for board meetings. German accents may not go over well with those of the Jewish persuasion; just a hunch. Indian accents are terrible. Learn to speak properly and suppress the urge to use the accent whenever possible. British accents are the creme de la creme. You can say anything with a British accent and sound sexy and sophisticated. "You are a low down nasty son of a bitch" said with a British accent is often mistaken for a compliment in America. As a matter of fact, the British accent is so damn hot that it can make being a prostitute seem glamorous. Doubt it? I looked at one episode of "The Secret Diary of a Callgirl" (don't tell Muzza) and she was discussing all sorts of whoresome details, but with a British Accent. I never knew whoring could be so chic.

My Trini accent has usually been well-tolerated, and actually the more Trini someone speaks, the more American people seem to like it. Unfortunately, I am losing it. This all began when people started asking me to repeat things. I HATE repeating myself. So I learnt early on during my first weeks here in America that I needed to pronounce my r's differently. That Connecticut was said as if there was a 'd' in there somewhere, and that 'butter' actually had no t's (budder). "Pass the budder" always gets me what I want; "pass the butter", not so much. Alas, my accent has become seemingly permanently changed due to my desire to conform. And this takes away from my specialness, which is not going over well with my ego. Popping my collar has not helped, nor has trying to undo the damage because I can't remember how it is I used to speak in the first damn place! Sigh... maybe I need to go home and immerse myself in Trini-ness for a while...

60 Dollar T-shirt

I am a very bad spender. I am an even worse saver. But I guess that is redundant because if you have bad spending habits, you're prolly not saving much. Unless the bad spending habits are like Papa Bear's... his bad spending is due to the fact that he does not spend at all. But I can bitch about that another time.

As you may be aware, Gereshisimo is getting married in Chicago this weekend and I'm going to witness the union of her chocolate face self with her vanilla face parter John. I cannot tell you how excited I am to see their children (whenever they have them...) because it is no secret that multiracial babies are superior both genetically and visually to pure-bred ones, on average. I say on average because I am perfect, although I am pure bred East Indian, but I am an exception. But I digress.

As I tried on my clothes for the wedding, I realized that due to my dark chocolate complexion, I looked a bit strange in the "wrong" light without an undershirt. It is times like these that I consider bleaching my skin, if only momentarily. White people never really have to worry about this problem of contrasting under a white shirt. One more reason why being brown can be hard sometimes. Anyway, so my only undershirt has a very obscene Banana Republic print on the front (it was 8 dollars at the outlet; give me a break). So I decided I would go buy me a new, plain white undershirt at Macy's. I went all the way to Macy's by train so that I could save money instead of going to, say, Union Station, which is closer but likely to charge more and have less variety of plain white t-shirts.

However, as I walked past the men's shoe section, I noticed they were having a SALE. And this is always what ruins me financially every month. Shoe sales at Macy's. To make a long story short, I ended up buying a nice pair of white Lacoste shoes for 40 dollars (SIXTY PERCENT OFF!!!) which was a steal. I was lucky enough to get the last pair and it was my size. Those shoes had my name on them and there was no way I was letting someone else come and take them away from me. However, by the time I got my 3 pack of plain white t's, I had spent 60 dollars, which is far more than the 10 I went all the way there to spend in the first place. Bah. At least now I have a pair of Lacoste shoes and I can be cool like that lead singer of One Republic, who is the only other person I have ever seen wearing them. Unfortunately, no one knows his name. Regardless, I am cool.

Now I'm off to Gesh's union. See you on the flip side!