The monday morning lab meeting went according to schedule. With the exception of me and an undergrad, everyone was late. We did nothing for the first 25 minutes. We continued doing nothing for another 20 minutes. We then talked about a gargantuan ass budget (GAB) that we'd already talked about for 30 minutes.

We then mobilized like the U.N., scurring around trying to complete a grant proposal that included the GAB. L tried to finalize budget above ground, while Dr. Zivago sat there looking off into space as I told him this phone-in-hand L-on-line. Hell then slowly, methodically and meticulously broke as 5 undergrads and I tried editing the HAB. After losing some papers, gaining more papers, throwing some Very Important Blank Sheets of Papers (VIBSOP) away and finally putting back those recently trashed (and thank God clean) VIBSOP's back in. And lo, the proposal was sent in the hopes of getting some fucking cash so I can get paid.

Hours pass, during which I filled out 10 pieces of paper verifying I was not salaried, not an employee, not a student, not a visiting Ph.D. and most definetely not someone that had worked for Mt. University before. I need to come in on Wednesday with my birth certificate, a litre of rum and a chicken head. Don't get me started on what I need to do to get a staff card.

More hours pass and at 1:30pm, L gets back from office hours and class. We make a drug, Reserpine, that smells quite like shit and can cause depression. We injected rats with the stuff. Dr. Ziv commandered most of the injections to make a few good points. It's just like bad sex: you jab in and thrust out quickly instead of prolonging the moment. Dr. Zivago also had to rush out this paper for publication at the last second. Crazy shit.

Back at home, I ran into something unprecedented online. Somehow, in succession, I ran into almost every good friend I've known or met since I graduated. It was orgasmic. For some reason every single one seemed to be in the mood to talk, and talk for awhile. To everyone that stayed up and talked with me, thank you; it was quite lovely (and in the Captain's case, a medical reference safari).

Finally--on Scott's request--after trying to figure out online what the fuck is wrong with the cable, I tried finding Scott to report. What I discovered bothers me. Noone should ever have to hear their mother's boyfriend (or husband) jacking off to softcore porn on Cinemax. That includes George W. Bush.

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