I'm stuck in the library and I'm horny. I had sex with Drew this morning but was too worried about being late to the clinic to have an orgasm; now I'm regretting that decision.

I keep thinking about a dream I had Wednesday night. I dreamt that a boy at school was in love with me. In real life this boy is straight, and he seemed to be straight in the dream, too. But for whatever reason he really, really, really wanted to be with me. I can say unequivocally that he wanted me more than anyone has ever wanted me in my life. He loved me more than my mother loves me.

He took me to his house, which was this big, gorgeous, empty modern glass-and-concrete tomb. It was so dark in there I could barely see. It seemed lonely and he seemed sad. He kept trying to tell me how much he'd always liked me, and I kept saying "I'm with Drew" and then I'd try to change the subject. I was uncomfortable, but flattered. We went out to meet some of his friends, and when he said my name they all reacted like "Oh, so this is the guy."

We ended up back at his place. And just as he started to strip his clothes off, I woke up. My first thought was "Oh come on! It's a dream! Fuck the kid already!" I mean, how boring of me. I take comfort in the fact that in real life Art is conceited, racist, and kind of chunky. (Although in my dream he had an Evan Lysacek body.)

Drew is the first boyfriend I've never cheated on. Which is pathetic, I realize. But he's also only the second real boyfriend, so I figure a 50/50 record isn't too terribly shameful. It also puts him in a pretty safe position; my self-esteem would never allow me to stray. I think too highly of myself to be a serial adulterer.

I still should have fucked Art in that dream, though.

 

It's 5:52 and I've given myself until 6:00 to blog. Then I have to get back to organic chemistry.

Oh God. The pressure. What to talk about...

Today I scrapped my personal statement for the third time and wrote a whole new draft. This one might actually be okay. The others were hideous. The hardest part of this process for me has been looking back on my entertainment jobs without being wholly repulsed. I just don't like thinking about most of those jobs. BLUGH! I met with a biology prof last week and he said "You really need to articulate what you learned in those jobs and how those lessons apply to a career in medicine."

Well... let's see. What did I learn? Uh... I learned the most efficient way to ship a box containing sixty pair of underwear and socks from Los Angeles to Prague so some weirdo actor wouldn't have to have his precious undergarments washed in a (GASP!) public laundromat. I learned how to order a refrigerator and have it delivered to a New York City apartment and have the old one hauled away even when the new refrigerator was too large to fit through the hallway and so had to be lifted in through a window -- all of which was coordinated from Los Angeles with no one on the ground in New York to help. I learned how to arrange cash payments for a now-indicted private investigator so he could dig up dirt on some producers. I learned how to insert an estrogen ring into a vagina and then keep track of when it needed to be changed. And then I learned how to summon the will to remind my boss when to take the ring out of her vagina and explain (again) how to insert the new one.

And, no, I do not want to be a gynecologist. Although I guess that last one is the least un-applicable.

(Suddenly studying organic chemistry doesn't seem so bad.)

 

Everyone do yourself a favor today and download the podcasts of "The Ricky Gervais Show".

 

Today at the homeless clinic I saw a name I didn't recognize on the sign-in sheet.

"Do you know who this is," I asked the security guard, showing him the name.

He laughed. "Somebody's fuckin' with you."

So I went outside and asked one of our regulars. "Queen of the South? She just left, I think."

"That's really her name?"

Yvonne looked at me through her thick glasses and shrugged. "She said that's her name, so I didn't ask any questions."

The Queen of the South returned about twenty minutes later and I gave her some forms to fill out. She handed them back, and had actually written "First Name: Queen / Last Name: South". And she put her birth date as 1989, although she looked at least 35.

She said she didn't know what to put under "Recreational Drug Use" and when I asked her if she'd done any drugs she acted like she didn't understand.

"Have you ever smoked crack?"

"I eat crack. I don't smoke it."

Sweet.

 

WARNING: This is the kind of entry that makes my boyfriend stop reading my blog. But I can't help it -- these are the things that consume my thoughts.

I didn't do so well on that test yesterday. I saw it coming a couple days ago, because I realized I hadn't done enough problems. Physics takes a lot of practice (at least for me), but for some reason I insisted on studying for it like I study for chemistry... re-reading chapters and taking notes.

I hate seeing myself fall onto a mediocre part of a curve. It's so discouraging. And now I have to do my physics homework for tomorrow. But who the fuck wants to do that? It's like kissing someone who just spat in your face.

Kind of.

Why is a B so bad, anyway? It's not, right? No. It is. I can't have a B. I can't have a B because I got a C+ in calculus in college and my science GPA needs to be as high as I can possibly make it.

Eww. Premed grade anxiety. Repulsive!

Okay. So maybe you can help me with this. Here's problem #1 from tonight's homework:

"1. Maybe we could make a straight 0.5-mm-diameter copper wire levitate, i.e., just 'float' horizontally in air by passing current through it, because of the force due to the Earth's magnetic field. This field is horizontal, perpendicular to the wire, and of magnitude 0.5G=0.000005 tesla. What current should the wire carry? Does the answer seem practical?"

I love the first three words. Maybe who could? Certainly not me.

So... got any ideas? Post a comment! Seriously. 'Cause I don't want to do this right now.

NOTE: A certain someone has a husband who teaches physics. And if she loves me she could ask him what the fuck I'm supposed to do with the diameter of the wire in that problem. Because I seriously don't have a clue.

ADDENDUM: Okay. So apparently you're supposed to set the force due to gravity equal to the force due to the magnetic field. But the gravitational force = (m)(g), and since the mass isn't given you're supposed to use density of copper = m/v. The volume is the volume of the wire, which is a cylinder and equals pi(radius)squared(length). So now you have the gravitational force = (density of copper)(pi)(radius)squared(length)(g). And you set that all equal to the force of the magnetic field, which equals (the current)(length of the wire)(magnetic field strength). And then you solve for the current. Why am I blogging about this?

 

I have a physics midterm in two hours, so I've gotta keep this short.

I could not get to sleep last night. Drew was snoring, but I also think my caffeine intake yesterday may have been a tad too high. I stayed up until 3am reading blogs and writing emails and now (surprise, surprise) I'm exhausted.

I just met with my advisor, who has agreed to write a letter of recommendation for me. He made me sit there while he read my personal statement. How embarrassing! He said I need to get more clinical experience, some lab experience, and that he doesn't think I should write off UCSF (which I'd come to believe would never in a million years accept me). So that's good news, I guess. I really do need to quit agonizing over grades so much and start paying more attention to my resume. Although failing this physics midterm isn't an option either, so I'd better start cramming.

 

11:57 -- I'm stuck in the library. I have this heinous prelab for organic chemistry that's due at 6:00 and I've got to study for tomorrow's physics test. So I'm doing 15 minutes of o-chem, 35 minutes of physics, and 10 minutes of blogging from 11am-6pm. Watch as I get grumpier and grumpier!

12:47 -- Okay, so I'm a little early. But I was at a good stopping point. I did get some work done, but I've also been very distracted by thoughts of this story. He stuck the phone in his butt and then had his friend call him??? It's very intriguing to me, this story. I'm picturing Gavin Henson (whom I personally find repulsive but whose hairstyle screams "I LOVE VIBRATING PHONES IN MY ASS!"... don't you agree?). Plus, there's the whole Charlotte Church schadenfreude factor. She just seems like a jerk and I can't stand her voice and I'd love it if video came out of her boyfriend with a -- fuck, I have to get back to work now. See? This story's very distracting.

SIDE NOTE: There's this oddball at the computer station next to me who, instead of having three different web browser windows open on his screen, is using three different computers at the same time. He clicks on one thing, then leans over to another computer to click on something else... are you fucking kidding me?

1:50 -- I really have to pee, but I don't want to have to pack up all my stuff. And I can 't trust these USC fuckers. Sticky-fingered little pricks.

Oh how I love the coffee high... that insane feeling I get that I can do absolutely anything. I drink a big tall cup of coffee and suddenly I'm making plans to volunteer at a food bank, start studying for the MCAT six months early, apply for a dozen lab jobs, read ahead in chemistry and mentor an abused child. Then comes the post-post coffee crash... when I realize I can't even finish my prelab by 6:00, so I give up and masturbate in the library bathroom. (Currently I'm on the cusp of that crash, so I'm going to try to hold off the j/o session until 4:00. Or maybe I'll walk to Starbuck's.)

2:49 -- Okay, I took the hour off to work on my much-dreaded personal statement. Try writing something like that without using anything that sounds as stupid as "I really want to help people" and without exploiting personal family illnesses. Not that it isn't legitimate to say you want to be a doctor because your mom had cancer... but it does sound cheap and manipulative. And, unfortunately, it's not true in my case. I mean, my mom did have cancer and that's COMPLETELY unfortunate; it just didn't make me want to be a doctor. I have a lot of good reasons, but they all sound so unbelievably embarrassing when I say them outloud. I have to meet with a professor tomorrow and he wants a copy of this thing before he'll agree to write me a letter of recommendation. I should have done this when I was high on caffeine.

3:48 -- I know I predicted it just two hours ago... but the coffee crash is here and it's not very pleasant. My prelab took a turn for the worse (suddenly we're doing calculus - natural logs and crap that doesn't make a lick of sense to me) and it's hot in the library and I never heard back about that job I applied for last week and so I wrote an email to the woman who interviewed me and now I feel like a bit of a loser. I'd go j/o in the bathroom, but there's always someone pooping in there and I'm not good at stroking it while standing up anyway. And, besides, I feel too depressed right now to get aroused.

I guess I'll go get an espresso and look for a TA who can help me with this prelab crap. So this is the end of the updates for today. That was fun, wasn't it?

 

The book club wasn't a terribly embarrassing disappointment. I know... who woulda guessed it. There were only five of us there, but I actually think that's a good number. Too many people makes it harder for me to cram my opinions down everyone's throat. We had a pretty lively discussion, despite the fact that only three of us actually finished the entire book.

Next up: this.

I'm at home alone right now. It's 10:52 on a Saturday night. Drew went to a party and begged me to come, but I have a physics test to study for. So instead of writing a big long (hiLARious) posting, I have to get back to work. The guilt is too great.

 

I interviewed for a job at a research lab yesterday.

Everyone in my program wants this job. It's an exciting project having to do with designing early detectors for lung cancer. The people who work there are friendly, the woman who runs the lab is supportive, and there's a really good possibility that the student who gets the job could get published.

Sarah interviewed for it earlier in the week. And being the nice friend she is, she put in a good word for me. To which the interviewer responded: "Is he the guy who worked on Blade II?"

Ugh.

I should do a resume rewrite, I realize. I've tried. But when it comes to work experience, I can't leave everything off or it looks like I haven't done anything for the past six years. And I'm honestly proud of a lot of the jobs I've had; they just don't look very applicable when you're trying to get a job fighting cancer. I've been hoping the science geeks would at least appreciate the fact that I worked on The X-Files.

I'm sure Rollerball impresses no one (which is as it should be).

 

Many of you are probably aware (though I was not, until recently) of the whole "FUCLA" thing. USC students walk around wearing t-shirts that say (har har) "FUCLA." They're all over the place and you can get one that disparages the school of your choice. Because (lucky for the genius who's selling these things) most major universities have an acronym that starts with a "U" which can therefore be prefixed with an "F" and that's just cool. And it makes the person who wears it look cool. And it's also informative, because you know where that person stands re: the school's biggest rival. They hate that damn school. GO TROJANS!!!!

But apparently implying the word "Fuck" on your shirt isn't quite edgy enough for some people: over the weekend Sarah and I walked past a kid on campus with a shirt that said "UCLGAY."

I mean, too bad the school's not called UCL-igger, right kid? How sweet would that be? 'Cause, you know... then you could have this t-shirt that, like, you know (hehe) totally says "UCLNIGGER" and then everybody'd know you hate UCLA and black people. Oh man... whew. Hilarious.

 

I still feel sick. Plus I'm a little dazed from the Nyquil. My test is in 45 minutes. Then lab, then more studying....

 

Feeling sick, can't sleep.
Organic chemistry test
tomorrow. Fuck this.

 

Sorry I haven't been posting blah blah blah schoolwork blah blah.

Every time I get confused in class I immediately start having dirty thoughts. Really graphic dirty thoughts that involve some frat trash sitting near me. It's like my brain takes the metaphorical "I'm so fucked in this class" and turns it into the literal "I'm so fucking you after class." It's really very distracting. Luckily the premed frat boys here are fairly repulsive. And often smelly.

I just found out that my godsons (and their parents) are moving from New York to London. Yet another strike against going to med school in NYC (second only to the fact that my boyfriend won't move there.) Now I've only got three friends left in the city. PLEASE DON'T MOVE, MOLLY & LARRY & LAIRD. I'm coming back one day, I swear!

I have to get three letters of recommendation (side note: this posting blows, but I don't have much time so I don't know what to tell you) for med school applications. One of which has to come from one of my Columbia professors. Yikes. That was seven years ago! I contacted my Columbia adviser and he agreed to write me a letter but he clearly didn't remember who the fuck I was. So he asked for a letter explaining why I want to go into medicine and a resume. I included a photo, too. Hehe -- how incredibly embarrassing. "Here I am -- NOW do you remember me?" Probably not.

 

No one showed up at the clinic this morning. We usually have 15+ patients. Today we had four. After two hours we started packing up and a social worker came in and said "Slow day, huh? They all got their GR checks this week, so they're out smoking. They'll be back tomorrow."

I'm so naive about drug addicts. Most of the patients claim that they're clean. I guess I choose to believe them because I don't want their situations to be as bad as they obviously are. Or I just believe them because I have no reason not to.

I still have this Fisher King fantasy for most of these patients, but obviously they're not all going to get off the streets. And that's not the mission of the doctor I work with, anyway. He's just trying to serve an underserved community. I don't know. It's too much to think about; I told myself that my favorite patients must have just been... too busy to drop by.

(Actually, things didn't end so well in Fisher King, did they? Did I rewrite that ending in my head?)

 

I'm actually getting stuff done today. It's such a relief! I probably shouldn't say that, though. That sounds like a prelude to "Now I can go home and watch Chapelle on Oprah!" But I drank >1/2 a bottle of wine last night, so Drew probably won't let me drink gin & tonics when I get home. So I may as well stay here and finish up.

I applied for a volunteer research job today and I've got an interview next Thursday. Woo-HOOO!

(I'm slightly delirious at the moment from lack of sleep. Thus all the self-congratulatory exclamation points. In person I'm even less coherent than I'm coming across here.)

 

In eight years I'm going to be a doctor.

And in eight years I'm going to be 37.

Sometimes I miss my early/mid- twenties, when I lived in a cloud of marijuana and never thought about being 37. Except when I thought about all the young boys with daddy complexes I'd get to fuck when I was that old.

But then I remember how when I was 20 I thought of 29 year olds as daddies and I realize what a fucking moron I was back then and I quit wishing to be young again.

And then I get back to work.