I'd wondered if Ross would show for the brownbag biology area group meeting. No on that count, but I did learn about transcranial magnetic stimulation finally. Basically, you take a big magnetic figure 8 deal, put it near someone's head, and run an electric current through it. And presto: instant temporary seizure and loss of activity in the brain area you want.

After that was my seminar with my advisor. That went well too, and we covered the basics of psychoneuroimmunology, how thoughts and feelings could affect the brain and how that, in turn, could affect our immune system. It also works in reverse. I do the 'works in reverse' part because it is better than sex and most parties.

Then I went out and had a survivable dinner. I can only eat on the right side of my mouth and chewing gets progressively more painful, so eating for me is lately a sucky chore instead of relaxing.

I tried going by the unnamed cafe that looks ultra swank, but no dice for finding a table. The fuckers close at 10 on mondays and tuesdays, too. So I opted for the ER coffee shop near the capital. My home away from home. Not that I'll ever know the names of the baristas I recognize (well except Maureen, but she's in psych). It just isn't my thing.

That's when I got the email from my advisor. That's when my night went to hell.

For backstory, I'm in the process of writing a summary for a conference presentation on my research. For the best summaries, the conference people pay you to go there. I kinda sorta need this because mommy and daddy can't just fork over the cash (although I have been tempted to sell daddy and my half sister to the feds to get my child support money). So I wrote up a 1st draft, he read it, and basically wrote his own 1st draft and gave it to me to work on. Needless to say I was a little pissed. He usually does this extreme revision thing, and he means well, but why include me in the initial draft? I guess he did save 4 or 5 short sentences.

So I worked on the thing, made a 2nd draft, and sent it over.

I got an email from him saying if the draft I'd sent was any different from the first one. For example, he said, I'd done this thing he specifically told me not to.

Ok. Maybe I accidentally sent the wrong version, even if I double-checked twice.

And so I checked the sent attachment three times.

No. No I sent him the right version. No, I'd specifically gone out of my way to not use the term he mentioned.

So far as I can tell, he opened up the wrong file. I can't see for the life of me what else this could be over, because the 2nd draft sure as fuck looks nothing like the 1st draft.

I wrote back with a polite email mentioning the title of the 2nd draft (which is different from the 1st), the specific thing I'd gone out of my way to get rid of, and also that I'd incorporated most of his comments. And in true subordinate fashion, I didn't say 'you opened up the wrong file. Open up the file I sent you,' I instead closed with: "Perhaps there was a mix-up in which file was opened?"

Isn't that a beaut?

I was more upset than angry about it, but now I'm way more angry than upset. I still made a fair amount of progress on my manuscript, but the lower left side of my jaw wouldn't stop throbbing. I don't need this type of shit when I'm still recovering from surgery.

On the one hand, this is just a misunderstanding. I can't possibly see how he could think my actual 2nd draft is not different from my 1st. It has to be an error on his part. On the other hand, I'd just recently gotten back into his good graces. And with the deadline being on the 1st and me still needing to crank out another draft after this 2nd one, things must remain copacetic.

Hopefully this'll just amount to an 'oh, oops' sortof a situation on his part. There isn't a fucking chance I could have possibly made an error. I double-checked that file. I'm so confident it's his fault that I've repeated myself three times in emphasizing this.

But I gotta let all this crap go. Writing this helps for one, and it's made the annoying itchy throbbing settle to just sortof a dull vague ache, like a long forgotten grandmother on her death bed gently calling out to family that aren't there.

In addition to writing, I'm going to slink into the bathroom, with no lights on, and sit in the darkness for awhile underneath the shower. It's calming, and I get to do some communing if I'm so inclined.

So needlessly aggravating. Yes, yes I do pick up on the irony of me saying that. I'll be all smiles by tomorrow. Or likely just back into my conscious equivalent of bedroom rock and mescaline.

Guy's gotta dream sometime.

previous - next