In one way this week was the usual rainforest expedition. Machete in one hand, chai in the other, I filtered through overgrown shrubbery and other vague bushy things. Like rediscovering sex after a cold or some lost Incan treasure, I hacked, smacked, and bolted through lush verandas to get the good stuff. Stats was more obscure than usual. I believe no less than mescaline, booze and cheap whores were to blame for Chapter 9. That was a godless travesty ill fit for human consumption. Still I pressed on, quickly flicking over the Brain Damage papers because noone was presenting, and no presenting = no discussion grade for sounding smart.

I even got to read over the first two lectures of stats. Our test is in two weeks. God help the fools among us. No. God help us all. The test is to be mostly conceptual, with all the formulas provided. I know exactly what formula-provided tests are like. I will have none of that smoke-screen. Best to understand the fucker inside and sideways. Overkill is a philosophy.

The BD class was, as always, a wonderful treat. Sometimes it tempts me into thinking that neuroscience was the way to go. Then I think about my cheeky monkeys, and I can't deny their pain-in-the-ass charm. Sadly the stats class has none of that; plenty of barbed wire kisses in stiletto heels, though.

There are also around 10 undergrads I'm interviewing for two research assistant positions. And I think: finally, after 5 years of being in research, of making it to graduate school, I get the white man's dream of playing god and scrabble. Or at least finding competent help that jives with me. This is momentous. 3 of the people already have primate work, and the others sound eager and fit my criteria. I've got 4 lined up for tomorrow.

Being that those people don't read this thing, I'll pass on any sudden exploding moments.

...On the other hand, the last several days were horrible emotional dishwashers, spraying black and red all around my head in nasty watercolors. Some thing, deep and immediate, keep clawing at me. My finger couldn't find it. It was a foul and withdrawn wave of depression, the soul-killing kind if knives were sharp enough. Perhaps I was worried. Perhaps my mind was trying to keep preoccupied. Perhaps more caffeine and less introspection while studying is in order.

Fornication of the slightly kinky variety would not hurt either. That activity is not native to this author's Wisconsin. Damnable import fees.

But on the good side it's open mic night and that means beer, and lousy to inspired musical college folk, and cards, and stuff.

But for the time being, I'll read over my notes for the conceptual midterm happening in a not so conceptual 2 weeks.

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