Sad Faces

I think it's no secret that I hate ugly people. It's very difficult for me to face the day with all the horrors it brings me when there are ugly people around. It becomes just too much to bear, you know? I mean, a thunder storm, bad day at lab, cat shits on the carpet... all bearable. But add to that having to interact with an ugly person, and BAM! Unbearable. This is why I refuse to be friends with an ugly person. It's definitely a deal breaker. Unless you have money of course; or a hot mom/dad. Because that means you're probably going to become better looking as you get older, and if you don't, you can at least afford plastic surgery to buy a new... well, face. That said, I draw a very clear distinction between ugly people and people who look sad.

The sad faced person earns my deepest sympathy. I don't know what it is about a person who looks sad all the time that gets me so very blue but it does. I remember there was a girl at Williams who came for a summer and she was extremely weird. Tall, lanky and weird. Her skin had never seen a ray of sunlight. To add to her weirdness, she was allergic to sugar. I kid you not. She was also somewhat rude to me and a bit of a downer overall, but I mean, I gave her a break because how much would it suck to be allergic to sugar?! I would be sad all the time too. And I'd be a bitch, just like she was. But there was something that prevented me from being totally bitchy back to her, and for some reason I remembered her today and I remembered what it was: her face. She had a sort of turned up nose as if to say she scorned the world and everything in it, but more than that, she had a SAD face. The haunting, daunting, sad face.

There is a woman who works at Subway here on Euclid and she too has a sad face. Part of me just wants to walk around the counter and give her a hug and make her a sandwich for a change. I have decided that if I ever were to become very wealthy, I would walk in there and give her a $10,000 tip. Just to make her happy.

I got the opportunity to put a smile on Sad Summer Williams Girl's (SSWG) face on her last night at Williams, and it was very satisfying. Okay, get your mind out of the gutter. I was not that generous. She was actually baking some cookies for someone, which sadly she was unlikely to eat (because she's allergic to f-ing sugar), and she was missing an ingredient: raisins. She was SO pissed because someone had taken her raisins from her storage space. Luckily, I had this phase during my sophomore year where I thought I was a raisin person and bought a whole set of them, only to realize I was actually not a raisin person at all and would never be found just snacking on raisins (who does that anyway?). So I was able to produce a few small packets of raisins, and SSWG's frown turned upside down and she... SMILED. I didn't like her at all, yet I was SO happy. I am weird.

People have theories. I have heard that we hate others most for what they represent of ourselves or something like that. Or we hate others because of our fear that what they represent may be something we're trying to hide or whatever. Hence the idea of the homophobic homo. Like Larry Craig who voted against a federal law that would have prevented employers from discriminating against people based on their sexual orientation. This would have been a regular run-of-the-mill douchey Republican thing to do... had he not also enjoyed smoking anonymous cock under the bathroom stall divider when he wasn't voting to deny himself a job after he got kicked out of the Senate. Ha!

Anyway, maybe sad faced people make me - someone who is used to entertaining, to cheering and to making people laugh - maybe those people set off a little fear inside of me. People who can only very temporarily look happy, and when they do, they seem in pain because of it, make me sad. I want to help them; I want to do whatever it takes to make them happy. This, in a way, is not as selfless as it would seem. I simply want to sleep well at night, and this sad faced person's face is going to haunt me if I don't at least temporarily make them appear happy. Ugh, I am complicated.

Charter Should Go into Banking

Charter Communications is perhaps the biggest sham of a company I have ever known. I think Enron was more honest to their clients than Charter. Regardless, because the bitches have a monopoly in St. Louis, and because St. Louis is sort of like a developing country, albeit poorer and less developed, I am stuck with them for my cable and internet. The good news about sham companies like Charter however, is that just like the amoral banks that make billions off of poor folks, Charter also has no true way of keeping track of all the money they steal from their customers. All they know is that it's a lot. And so they can lose some and they'll still be okay.

Case in point: today when my internet setter upper guy was late, I called Charter and complained that I had lost two hours worth of wages waiting for him and was likely to lose two more. His window of arrival was between 10 and noon, according to the appointment and I called at 12:45pm. So Charter offered me a $20 credit. I politely protested that 20 dollars won't account for four hours worth of lost wages and since they were charging a connection fee, it would be nicer if they credited that amount instead. And you know what? They agreed! They credited me $49.99! Amazing.

Some people might call me an ungrateful asshole and say that this should make me agree that the company is actually not bad, and that it actually does care about its customers, but I beg to differ. Try calling them and you'll see what I mean. They don't even know who is in charge of what in that place. I asked for new internet and one rep told me it would decrease my bill by $1.00 to add internet because they would "bundle" it. So I said, great, let me call back when I am sure I can set up the appointment. I call back about 5 days later and a new rep says it will increase by $45.00. So I ask, how is this possible, that is $46.00 more than what I heard last time. He got annoyed and "double-checked" and then decided it would only go up by $11.00. Eventually we agreed on something between 4 and 10 dollars, which he was sure to inform me was a huge favor. Since when do you barter for an internet price? We do that in Trinidad, but for fish in the market, not for internet!

Just to end, I am pasting an online chat session with Charter reps for your amusement, and in case you suffer from low blood pressure, this is sure to help. The query is legit; they sent me a message by mail the other day about programming your DVR from any computer if you have a Charter internet account. I threw away the letter because at the time I had been "picking up" a "complimentary" wireless signal at home and had no account or any reason to get one. My complimentary signal has since vanished and I had to make other arrangements. The conversation is below. Enjoy.

A representative will be with you shortly. You have been connected to CVW Arnold . CVW Arnold : My name is Arnold, Thank you for contacting Charter Communication. May I have your full name so I may assist you today?

Me: I receieved a letter a few weeks ago explaining how to program my DVR settings (select shows I want to record) from a computer as long as I had DVR and Internet from Charter. I can't find the letter anymore. Can you direct me to a web address where I can get those instructions please?

CVW Arnold : I do apologize You been mistakenly routed, You currently reached the National Sales and Order Department, you will need to Contact Customer service video support group for further assistance at 1-888-438-2427 or I can also Transfer you.

CVW Arnold : I can transfer you

Me: please transfer me

Me: thanks

CVW Arnold has left the session. Please wait while we find an agent from the CHAT - DUMA - Video Support department to assist you.

You have been connected to TTD Francine Jay .

Me: I received a letter a few weeks ago explaining how to program my DVR settings (select shows I want to record) from a computer as long as I had DVR and Internet from Charter. I can't find the letter anymore. Can you direct me to a web address where I can get those instructions please?

TTD Francine Jay : As much as I wanted to help you, it would appear that you have been mistakenly routed to our Billing Department. Our Internet Department would certainly be able to help you out with your concern. Would you like me to transfer you to the right department?

Me: yes, please transfer me

TTD Francine Jay : One moment please while I transfer you to our Internet Department.

TTD Francine Jay has left the session. Please wait while we find an agent from the CHAT - DUMA - HSD Support department to assist you.

You have been connected to TTD Sybil .

TTD Sybil : My name is Sybil. Thank you for contacting Charter's High Speed Internet Support. How may I assist you today?

Me: I received a letter a few weeks ago explaining how to program my DVR settings (select shows I want to record) from a computer as long as I had DVR and Internet from Charter. I can't find the letter anymore. Can you direct me to a web address where I can get those instructions please?

TTD Sybil : It would appear that you are mistakenly routed to the Internet Support. TTD Sybil : I apologize for the inconvenience however, to be able to resolve your concern, please call 1-888-438-2427.

TTD Sybil : Is there anything else I can help you with today?

Me: what is wrong with you people? This is going to be the FOURTH time I have been "mistakenly routed". Is this some sort of joke?

Me: please re-route me to an online agent who can assist me

TTD Sybil : I am very sorry but you need to call.

Me: why is there no agent who can answer a simple questions such as what I am asking?>

Me: it is not that technical

Me: just give me a web address; that is all I am asking. I am not even asking for instructions on how to do it.

Me: this is ridiculous

TTD Sybil : I apologize for the inconvenience.

I quit here

Prelim Decisions are the New Sexuality

So it turns out that my committee won't "use labels" to define what exactly happened to me last Thursday. I didn't fail; that would be harsh. Especially after preparing a 14 page document with about 30 citations and giving a 30 minute presentation that lasted two hours full of slides that they expressly liked. So that's good. What is weird though is that I also did not pass. Nor did I get what is the only other option: a "conditional pass". No, these labels are useless. I cannot be defined. Instead, I am "yet to pass". That is what P. Hanson said to me at the end of my 3 hour ordeal last week; and that sentiment was reiterated in the committee's report where there is no mention of having failed or passed but rather of having a grant that did not go far enough thus placing me "below the passing grade", which incidentally is what most normal people call failing.

This all reminds me of those stupid girls in college who get drunk and go muff diving, only to surface again and say that they are not gay, bi, straight or lesbocious. They refuse to be labelled. They are just American college girls. American college girls who go muff diving once in a while.

Semantics will not distract me. I am "yet to pass" my prelim so life must be put on hold. But I had committed to joining the crew of a new healthy living magazine a woman named Elaine D. is starting here in St. Louis back when I thought I'd have passed my prelim outright, so I am going to that meeting this evening. We're supposed to all gather at the Maplewood Library at 8:00pm today. It should be interesting. Maybe I will be able to write for this magazine and express myself in a healthier way. I am excited to meet the other people because meet and greets are always awkward and I love awkward situations. They make for great blogging. So stay tuned.

In other news, apparently blogging can be therapeutic. In a Newsweek article entitled, "My Shrink says... Blog!", blogging is presented as a way of airing ones problems in a medium with a built-in audience, which can be interpreted by the blogger as achieving some sort of sympathetic response to his problems. "Diaries are a form of that communication, but removed. Blogging gets you closer to that sympathetic audience, and that's what makes it therapeutic."

Sweet. I feel better already.

Check out the rest here: http://www.newsweek.com/id/142630

I hate the world

Or more specifically, I hate the people on my committee. Those bastards gave me a "conditional pass" with the recommendation that I add a third aim to my proposal and come back and present said third aim to them. All of this after my 2 and a half hour grilling this morning, and two weeks after I handed in my written grant. So basically, I was screwed the moment I walked into that room because no matter what I did or how well I did it, the proposal would still be only 2/3 of what they think is good enough to constitute a grant. And they waited until 1:00pm this afternoon to tell me this. This is the way the molecular cell biology program at Wash U functions. Or does not function. However you wish to look at it. I hate them so much. So very, very much.

Game Time!

Comrades, the hour is upon us. I am to be taken from my quarters at sunrise (okay, fine, 9:30 or so). I will be carrying upon my back the enormous crucifix of 10 weeks of mind-wrenching research about the nature, form and structure of liposomes and their ability to either hemi- or fully-fuse with each other under specific conditions. The people of Bethlehem or Euclid, whichever way you choose to pronounce it, will react to me in a mixed manner. Some may spit at me. Some may offer me water. Some may even attempt to carry my crucifix for me. Alas, I shall arrive at the 10th hour before the Council of Elders who will proceed to flagellate me and pierce me with their nails. I will also be wearing a crown of thorns because it just seems appropriate.

I have prepared myself for the worst case scenario tomorrow. I am prepared to walk into the room and have P. Hanson spit at me and punch me in the face. Next, I am thinking P. Schlesinger will throw a chair at me, while S. Dutcher holds me in a headlock and knees me in the balls. Finally, D. Ory will light fire to my ass. Now that I am prepared for this epic battle, I am quite sure that nothing any of these eminent scholars say to me tomorrow will be so bad. And so, hopefully, I will be able to sleep tonight. And tomorrow, I shall not cry when faced with them.

I have chosen a black shirt, a pair of khaki pants, a brown belt, a brown tie and a pair of brown shoes for tomorrow's presentation. Picture it; it's a glorious sight. I have already tried them on and I'd dare say they look pretty damn good. So, in case I should have a serious meltdown, at the very least I will look good melting down. I wouldn't fail a kid who wore a tie to his prelim; would you? (Don't answer that, Cailz).

Pray for me.

I am scurred

The last time I had to do a qualifying exam, I passed it. That was because it was the second time I was taking the exam, having failed it the first time. I remember sitting in intro MCB with John Cooper who welcomed us to grad school and announced quite emphatically that in grad school, grades don't matter. I remember sitting in that class the next year and again hearing him say the same thing and thinking what a big piece of bullshit that was. Anwyay, that is behind me. But now I have to worry about my very terrifying next half of the qualifiers coming up on Thursday. That's an oral exam and to be honest, I am scurred. Very scurred. The rules are basically that you prepare and write a 10 page grant on a research topic unrelated to your lab work, in the format of an NIH post doctoral fellowship application. It consists of a brief abstract, a hypothesis and two or three specific aims to test the hypothesis, and then the methods by which you will carry out the specific aims. Two weeks before you defend it, you hand in the written part and then you present a 20-25 minute talk outlining what you wrote before a committee of 4 professors. I am shitting bricks. But I have some good news.

Last night I dreamnt I failed it. Why is that good news? Because every dream I have been having so far has been turning out to be true... in the opposite. A few nights ago, I dreamt I got the cancer bio fellowship I was forced to apply for on very short notice and which I was sure I wasn't going to get. Turned out I did not get it. Then I dreamt I drowned on the float trip. Turns out I almost drowned, but not quite. So now, since I dreamt I failed my prelim, I am actually quite relieved. Had I passed in that dream, I would be very worried right now. But I am still scurred. I should go finish working on the presentation now. Regardless of the outcome, I shall keep you informed.

Access Checks My Ass

Do not EVER use those ripoff "access checks" Bank of America or any other bank may send you in the mail. I thought I was so financially savvy when I discovered I could use an "access check" to pay a merchant that does not take Visa, such as my mofo leasing office. I thought, "great, I'll get 750 world points every month and after 10 years of this, I can get 10 dollars cold hard cash!" Just to be safe, I called the bank and they confirmed that yes, indeed, this is true. Furthermore, I clarified that if I paid my future transaction ahead of time, I would not be charged any transaction fees. So I went ahead and wrote my rent check of $750, only after putting $800 on the card ahead of time. I figured I could use the other 50 to pay a bill or something.

Anyway, so today I check my account and lo and behold those bitches have charged my poor brown ass a 3% transaction fee. That is $22.50! As I dialed the number at the back of the card, all I could hear in my head was OH HELL NO! Over, and over, and over. I was FUMING!

I spoke with a Mr. Eldrige Holloway who was very polite but firm in telling me that the fee is written in the agreement and that I chose to use the checks and therefore that was too bad. But being a Trini, I knew that good old Eldrige, being the man who first answered the phone after the annoying prompts, could not possibly be the head honcho, so I politely told Mr. H to stick it, and to hand me over to someone more powerful. He obliged and after 15 minutes of classical music, I was speaking with Warren Smith, a manager. I threatened to close my account when I was speaking to Ellie, but adopted a more conciliatory tone with Mr. Manager. I instead told him that as a customer for 2 years who has never paid a single payment late, I think that it would be a good faith move for the bank to credit me back my $22.50. I didn't consider that the bank, being the Satanic Abyss of Financial Doom that it is, actually WANTS me to pay my bills late so I can pay them interest, so this was probably not something to try to sell myself on, but it seemed like a good pitch at the time.

And guess what... it worked! The manager agreed to credit my account back $22.50! Great success! So by midnight tonight I am supposed to be $22.50 richer, which would have been nice had I not been $22.50 poorer because of the whole incident to begin with. Regardless, those 22 dollars and 50 cents are MINE and I am not going to let some nasty bank try to take them away from me. And neither should you!

I told you so

I am one of those people who loves to be able to say, after the fact, "I told you so." It really makes me happy. So, just in case, I would like to propose my choice for Barack Obama's VP. If it is not Hillary Clinton, I am proposing that it should be Senator Chuck Hagel. Go do some research on who Chuck Hagel is. For starters, he's a Republican and he's one of the few who started off as pro-war and is now very much against the war. He would be a good pick because of the abovementioned reasons, but also he is a white man. Barack needs a white man as his running mate. I don't like Hillary and hope he does not choose her.

I have a problem

A few days ago I almost walked into a blind woman. Clearly, she was not looking where she was going. That may seem like a horrible place to slide in some humor, but... okay... no buts. I am sorry. Anyway, I almost walked into her because she was, at the moment, holding her cane upright, for whatever reason I am unsure. So as I walked, she sort of swayed over into my path, NOT tapping her cane, and I stopped short of walking into her. I was annoyed at this woman who was so carelessly swaying into my path that I turned up to glare at her with my evil eye so as to say, without words, "watch where you're going, bitch." It was at that moment that I noticed she was wearing very dark sunglasses - inside the mall - and holding a cane. I then proceeded to move out of her way, and to feel like a piece of shit for almost being vindictive in my own passive-aggressive way, to a blind woman. Why am I telling you this? Have patience, the point will become clearer.

I have a problem with hate. Not being the object of hate, although there is a lot about me people can hate, but being the hater. I am a big hater. A girl at Williams asked me why I was "drinking all of that hatorade" once. I hated her. This is because I am wont to hate people before I begin to like them. If we've interacted for a very short period of time, chances are I hate you. I most likely also hate your mother for having you, and your father for knocking up your mother and adding you to this population. I also hate your sister because she's a bitch, and your brother because he's ugly. I also probably never met them or saw pictures of them, but since I hate you so much, I know deep down inside that I hate them. See? I am a real hater. But chances are, after a while of forced interaction with you, I will begin to like you. I will begin to see all those little things about you that are unique; that only I have been able to unravel and to enjoy, and soon enough, I may begin to even love you. I may decide that your sister isn't actually that ugly after all. As a matter of fact, now that I love you, I may love her, because she is of course related to you by blood. And then I begin to feel badly about myself for hating you to begin with.

This cycle seems to repeat itself over and over. I never learn. What does this have to do with that blind woman? Well, that experience of almost-walking-into-the-blind-woman was in a way, a microcosmic (?) example of my larger problem. I judged that situation by my fixed-scale ruler of situation-judging: woman walks into my path because woman is not paying attention to where woman is going, therefore, glare at woman. As if, in some way, I were better than she. As if, even in the case that she could see, I had some RIGHT to walk along that specific path and she should dare not come between me and my God-given right. But my fixed scale hasn't any accomodation for the possibility that the woman is blind and that she does not have the luxury, as I do and as I take for granted every single day, of seeing that she is walking into my path. This is the same problem I have when I meet people and immediately hate them. I judge the situation immediately, based on parameters I have developed from other situations that probably have no bearing in that specific instance. And so then I hate. And I have never been able to quite get out of this.

So the good news is I have admitted I have a problem. The bad news is I don't know exactly how to solve it. Regardless, I am going to keep track of my anti-hating initiatives here for your education and if not, at least for your entertainment. Wish me luck...

A Walk in the Clouds

Okay, not really. It was a walk, yes. But in the clouds? No. The scene was Euclid Avenue, St. Louis, Missouri. The day, yesterday, June 17th. The time, 9:30am. The cross-streets, Laclede and Forest Park. There was a crazy man walking down the street calling out to people, "hello! Good morning, excuse me, excuse me. Please, when you are about to go to sleep tonight, raise your hands in prayer for me. Ask the Lord to protect me and save me. God bless." It is a fact that no city becomes great without first having a lot of crazy people asking you to pray for them (and for yourself). So New York City, watch out... the gateway city is moving up!

Anyway, so I ignored him, because if I had time to waste asking Allah to protect random lunatics on the street, I'd probably also have been able to write this entry yesterday rather than today. So anyway, the mad man has moved on asking other people to pray for him and what not, and then this guy who was sitting outside a cafe having his breakfast, and who I thought I had left way behind, shows up next to me and starts talking. It was one of those, I-know-you-just-ran-to-catch-up-to-me moments, combined with an I-know-you're-trying-to-make-random-conversation-based-on-a-silly-occurrence-we-both-witnessed-thinking-we-have-somehow-bonded-when-in-reality-I-am-somewhat-afraid-of-you-but-would-have-been-flattered-had-you-only-been-cute ones. For what reason he did this, I am not sure. But when you're as gorgeous as I am, these things happen. I know, it's not easy being perfect, but don't cry for me. I have gotten used to it. So anyway, random guy starts talking and I have no idea what he's saying so I'm like, "what?" and he says something incoherent, and I answer, "yeah, I guess so." I was guessing that he was saying something about the crazy guy being crazy. Usually, "yeah, I guess so" works in most awkward contexts. We can explore that theory in another post. So where were we? Yes, random guy is talking incoherently. Next thing he starts adding, "yeah, he must be Christian." So I'm giving the awkward grin where you're trying to be completely neutral but not too rude. "All Christians are crazy", he continues. My grin remains. Difficult to keep up, but still there. Then he adds, "Christians and Muslims... all crazy." Except he pronounced "Muslims" as "MOZ-LEMZ" which I HATE. I mean, you might as well call me a ragheaded camel jockey if you're gonna call me a mozlem. Okay, maybe not, but I hate to hear the word so brutally and savagely destroyed, okay? By this time, I think my awkward grin vanished. I reply, "well not all of them," to which he says, "well, I think all. But not Hindus. Hindus are okay." Clearly this idiot had hedged his bets on the fact that I'm Hindu. Maybe in his little pea-sized mind, he thought we would bond further over the fact that I was able to run into a stranger who not only shared my hatred of Christians and Muslims, but loved my Hindu people. How awkward. And to make matters worse, he kept walking along beside me. I was wondering whether this was when I was supposed to say, "sorry, not interested. I am married." Then I began to wonder if this was a story that would later appear on the front page of the newspapers, "Wash U grad student attacked by Islamophobic assailant with knife." It made sense; maybe he was trying to determine that I'm Muslim so he could stab me. I was getting ready to scratch his eyes out, when he said, "okay, I am turning here. Bye." It was so awkward, but I was relieved. I hope I never see him again.

Multi-tasking

I am having a hard time at work. This is not a new development. However, I am currently experiencing an unusually difficult time because I have my qualifying exam approaching on July 10 and at the same time, I am somehow expected to train a new student who has had no prior experience in a lab. Summer Student (SS) is however the best case scenario for this, well, scenario. SS learns everything the first time he is taught. Sometimes SS needs reminders about small details, but in general, I trust SS. And given that I have major trust issues, well this is as good as it gets. But I do feel guilty telling SS, "SS, today I will be writing my grant, so we'll do work between around 2ish to about 3ish". I feel even worse knowing that this is basically going to happen over and over until July 10th. But whatever. SS doesn't seem to mind. SS also doesn't mind the fact that I routinely call him "Summer Student".

Apart from having trouble falling asleep because my mind is constantly thinking some sort of rubbish, I also have a hard time concentrating during the day because my mind is thinking some sort of rubbish. Now don't get me wrong; I love Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown as much as you do, but when they keep asking me to tell them how they're supposed to breathe with no air, over and over and over, when I am trying to figure out how many microliters of DNA I should be using for a transfection, it becomes a bit of a problem. And when it's not them, it's ABBA. I get it, I am a Supertrooper. No one else would put up with this day in and day out, so clearly, if anyone were to be a Supertrooper, it would me me. But do you REALLY have to keep telling me?

So the overall idea is that my brain is sort of like a radio stuck between a few stations, playing all at the same time, but none well enough to really discern what is going on on one station from what is happening on the other. I described this once to a doctor who said that she was so impressed by my ability to put such an abstract feeling into practical terms that she had to take a note of it. Unfortunately she hasn't returned the favor and impressed me by tuning my damn radio. So, I still have issues. But at least I'm still sleeping. Last night I actually fell asleep about 15 minutes after going to bed. And I slept all the way until my real alarm clock (not my internal one, or my bladder) went off! So maybe I am not becoming resistant to the latest sleeping drug after all! But the pharmaceutical industry has not been known to satisfy anyone forever, so we'll see how long this lasts.

Oh, and in case you were wondering what Massa meant by "1 savior + 3 nails = 4given" in the last post, that was the caption on a t-shirt worn by a teenage girl at Six Flags yesterday. This was of course overshadowed by the girl who had a swastika made of bones tattooed onto her NECK. Welcome to Missouri.

Six Flags

Today we went to Six Flags. Me, Massa, Cailz, Juliegreen, Chris and Megan. Note to self: I need to come up with me-names for Chris and Megan. Anyway, so all of us together makes 3 girls and 3 boys. However, Massa has accused me of acting "worse than a four year old girl" for not wanting to get on a ride that he later deemed "a terrible experience". Now, in his defense, he did not pull that accusation out of his white imperial ass, but rather literally meant it after a woman in line turned around upon hearing of my refusal to join the ride and said, "my daughter is going on this ride and she's six. She went on it two years ago, when she was four!" She then snorted two lines of low-grade cocaine off her six year old daughter's ass. Okay, so she didn't, but still, what was the point of telling me that useless information? I should have responded, "my Muzza spat three children out of her womb and 25 years later she is still not as fat as half your ass." Unfortuately, Six Flags does not allow profanity. So I had to suppress my creativity and smile.

Can I speak for a moment about the tattoo situation in Missouri? Believe me when I tell you it is out. of. control. About 40% of the population at Six Flags today was tattooed (?) And I'm not just talking about a little crucifix with Jesus being tortured to death plastered on a bikini line. I am talking mega whopping life size crucifixes with Jesus being tortured to death from the back of the neck down to the promised land itself! About 3% of the tattoos I saw today had any artistic value whatsoever. Please people, stop it.

As a faithful reader of this blog since, well, since yesterday, you probably would like to be updated about my sleeping situation. Well, to make a long story short, the vicious cycle of - take drug that makes you sleep until you stop responding to drug then switch to new drug that makes you sleep until you stop responding and then switch to new... - continues. The first time I took my current sleeping pill, it made me sleepy for 24 hours. I would fall asleep anywhere, anytime. You are unaware of this because my job requires moving around minute amounts of materials from one vessel to another. If I were a construction worker operating a crane, well, you'd know of my sleeping med problems for sure. Anyway, I've reached the stage where the drug no longer allows me to fall asleep easily. I have to REALLY want to. Much to my annoyance, the built-in alarm clock seems to have begun working also. I wake at 7:30. This is becoming a problem. I think I need to go back to my doc...

Now for my final advice for today, re: Six Flags St. Louis: Don't go on any rollercoasters. I went on the Batman so you would not have to. It was horrifying and all I gained from this was a feeling of closeness to the Almighty for about 60 seconds. I think this is why all those Christian groups have so many Six Flags days. Also, the rest of my group went on that old wooden piece of shit with the fat lady and her six year old and came off looking like they'd walked in on Dick and Lynne Cheney sharing an intimate moment.

Sorry, I just vomited.

Okay, cleaned.

But now my sleeping med is taking over, so sorry to make this so awkward, but, uhm, bye!

I'm Back!/Sleeping Woes

Hello World! I am back. I decided to start fresh with my bloggie, so I deleted all my old posts, which dealt a great deal with political topics. However, I found one that I had not completed. It must have been at least 5 months old, sitting there, incomplete. So, as my first "new" post, I am putting it in below. I will then update you all about my progress since then, since I am sure everyone will take time out of their very busy lives to read about me. Here it is:

For the life of me, I cannot fall asleep. Well, to be fair, I can fall asleep, just not at the right times. I can fall asleep during lab meetings, where other lab members have been hedging bets as to whether I will be able to stay awake or not. I can fall sleep during any science talk where data is discussed. I can fall asleep on the train, during a 13 minute ride to the mall. I can fall asleep after lunch, when I should be working. But when most normal people pack up their lives and say goodnight to the moon, I am awake. I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, the bedpost, the wall, the door. All sorts of thoughts come to me. "Perhaps, if I learned to sew, I could be a fashion designer." "Perhaps, if I learned to walk, I could be a supermodel." "It would be nice to fly first class on British Airways to Cairo." "Gosh, I want honeycomb, with the beeswax."

Many things come to me as I lay in my bed, but sleep comes last. And then I dream. I dream terrible, terrible things. Muzza dying. Being mugged. Things about me, like looking in the mirror and seeing saggy flipfloppy man boobies staring back at me, love handles, a happy trail gone seriously sad... the list goes on. I feel like the character in the Edgar Allan Poe story, The Tell-Tale Heart. But it isn't a heart I hear beating; it's my own brain screaming.

My frustration can hardly be put into words. But my thoughts will not stop flowing at these hours. About a dozen simultaneously cloud my poor head each and every time I lay to rest. So when I wake in the morning, I have slept a maximum of 5 hours each night. And so my body grabs back every minute of sleep it can: in lab meeting, at lectures, at journal presentations, on the train...

I cannot focus on anything. What you can do in 1 hour, I can only dream of doing in two. I am so completely out of it that even to carry on a conversation with some people is difficult. If I am not interested in what you're saying, then I more or less zone out. And every now and then, I come back, feel bad about my ignoring you, and pretend to be interested.

This has made for some awkward situations, of course. Someone might be talking about their brother, perhaps.

Person: "So my brother broke his leg... (I begin zoning out).... and he had to go to the hospital... they put a cast on 6 weeks ago... luckily he's gotten it taken off just before soccer practice starts back up... so now he can run again (I zone back in and feel bad)..."

Me: "Well, I'm glad nothing is broken"


Okay, this is where it ended. More later.