In a way, this situation doesn't just suck, it fucking sucks. I came to this conclusion while I stood in the middle of the poorly ventilated holding room, breathing paint fumes through a mask and touting a shoddy wooden extension pole that I'd secured a paint roller to with masking tap. I have all the respect in the world for contractors, but I didn't sign up with this utterly irresponsible man to learn how to paint. I signed up to get experience and, as he promised me, to get paid. I like whining and bitching as much as you do, but can you fault me for being upset? When your own supervisor doesn't even come in or send you a note?

Well while the cat's away the mice'll play. My version of playing was reading the BBC news for awhile and then an informative website about skin cancer. Thankfully the tiny tan circles on my chest don't resemble the three known types. But reading the BBC news shouldn't be the mainstay of why I bother going to the lab. I'm not going to go into the lab just to paint and delicately avoid the 6 inch wood trim around the holding room.

One thing I did accomplish today: I finally got that damned Knock-U-The-Fuk-Out-Good drug. I hiked down to the vault expecting Nice Asian Lady (NAL) to answer, recognize me and now realize that I had already put in and gotten approved an application to pick up the drug in question. I didn't get NAL. I got Aryan Wife-Beater, the type of middle aged hollow-cheek that was perpetually clean-shaven with short cropped hair and wouldn't take shit from nobody, least of all the woman he beats because he loves her. You can see his kind at late night gyms and wharf bars.

As usual I filtered down into the bowels of Mt. University's medical building, down to the secret pharmacy vault. I picked up the unmarked phone, listened and waited for a voice. Wife-Beater answered. I asked for my order. He didn't understand a word I said. I spoke more slowly. He informed me I needed Dr. Ziv's purchase number. I figured since NAL had given enough of a shit to look for our order without one, I didn't think Wife-Beater would have any objections. Well that's where he drew the line. He couldn't tell one vial from another without the purchase number, so I needed it. I said I'd be back, thanked him with as much warmth as a Walmart employee and stalked back to the psych building. 30 minutes later I returned, he gave me an edge of an attitude, I purposely took my good time filling out and signing various forms then left. He thought I was a punk, I thought he was..well, his namesake.

When and if Dr. Ziv does ever get some grant money, I'm not budging an inch on my price..or my willingness to walk if he doesn't meet it. All of this goes beyond the call of volunteering or my job description.

Time to study.

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