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What the fuck is going on here, anyway?

2003-12-09 - 10:25 p.m.

My neck is out of place. Immense, sharp pain follows like a gosling.

Dr. Zivago decided to only do non-shock totally-hyped-on-mega-heroin rats this week. He mentioned in front of others that you got pilot studies when there isn't a plan. He'd said something to that effect to me in private yesterday. I got the impression that our now pilot study--which he decided on making by taking out those shocked rats--was squarely my fault for not being an experiment.

My mental comment: Fine, fuck you too. I wasn't the one who decided that running an all-new experiment--with equipment we've never tried before--on finals week was a good idea. Who's the one with a general lack of planning and fucking foresight here? I mean what natural disaster or Second Coming of Christ is gonna happen before we get back from break?

He capped it off today by saying that he'd be starting up on writing recommendations again. So all throughout doing my now pilot study I can hear him clacking on keys. It really couldn't have played out much worse. Then again, he is still writing the letter and he said once he only wrote good letters.

Then again, I am the most meticulously paranoid person I know. I'm not proud of this fact--actually I kinda hate it--but fuxxors my dixxorz, yo: there's some wily shit going on down there, so can you blame me?

----

I've taken two extra-strength Bayer back and body pain tabs. My back feels splendid and the neck ache is going away. I'm going to get started on my Stanford essay tonight--which really involves writing two or three new paragraphs I need to tack onto my U Penn essay to make it my Stanford essay. Thank God for redundancy.

I basically need to phone or email those two schools tomorrow to see if they got my application fee waivers. I'm hoping they did so I only have to worry about getting the rest of my application materials.

Speaking of those app. materials, it seems like I've got everything. I need to triple check the forms, of course, a process which'll be triple-checked three times. Gotta get that mythic rule of three shit in there, after all. Huh, that's a funny thought: what if all those ancient myth tellers were just a bunch of obsessive-compulsive nutballs, roasting in the sun and forgetting their sandals near some mead stand?

----

By fuck and thunder: my neck aches no more! Two hours until sleep. That should be enough to write this essay.

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