The set-up was simple: it was friday, I needed to suck up plasma from blood wells in the incubator. Rachel, one of my undergrads, came 'round for an appointment. It'd occurred to me before to suck up the wells, but I thought I'd just do it after. (Can you see where this is headed?).

The meeting went on for nearly 2 hours.

And at the end of it I started doing data coding. I had an awful headache. Nervous energy pulsed around my forehead. But I shrugged it off.

It wasn't until 4am the following (uneventful) morning that I realized: I'd never sucked up the cells. The assay was botched.

I was panicky for a bit but devised several strategies, each more reasonable than the last. I felt like a foolish incompetent. I'd never, never before forgotten my proliferations. But sure enough I'd gotten distracted and didn't listen to my good subconscious sense when it spoke up twice.

So how did I remedy the situation?

Deception.

Simply put, we sometimes don't collect enough blood during draws. All I did was intimate that we needed to get a small amount of blood for a 'few' animals. All I then do is schedule with a senior drawer I don't usually work with that's not a part of our unit, get Justin's help to get monkey's out, and taking 1ml from the 3 animals to redo my botched assay is complete.

Complicated, but do-able. And I didn't even have to technically lie.

Lying with full awareness kills me inside until I change my memories. Deception is an intellectual artform I perform while delightfully skipping.

I've come to the conclusion that Cold War was daddy's little princess growing up.

It fits so well: cheerful and perky and all smiles until she doesn't get her way. Then it's bitch bitch bitch bitch all to the nine hells at anyone that'll listen. And the demanding 'my way' approach is getting old fast.

We do not get along well these days. Combined with someone accidentally leaving a box of her samples out and her blaming me (even if I checked the area before securing the freezer), we are no where close to the vague friendship we once had. Embarassingly I used to think of her as a sisterly figure. We did actually approach some vague collegial closeness at one point, with her suggesting I just ask her and her cadre for help instead of my supervisors (whom she's never gotten on well with).

Now I barely tolerate her presence and I honestly can't mask it well. I have to will myself, hard, to act as if I don't find her repugnant. The feeling is mutual for her I'm sure but for different reasons, mostly related to my fucking up on occasion because of attention problems. I don't care, regardless. I want as little professional contact with her as possible.

So the rest of the week is predictable, work-wise.

Besides that I obviously have a need to update about whatever the hell I'm supposed to update about. Too many social events and club nights to keep track of. Christ I could almost be accused of having a social life, even compared to normal people. I define normal people as those around my age that make 2-3x as much as I do and aren't students anymore.

Don't we all wanna be normal? I sure as hell do. A new camera plus and the most horrifically dehumanizing gas mask I can find would be neat. You bet your ass.

It's also recently come to my attention that slacks that are literally soaked with sweat do not bend as well as dry slacks! I know, shock and awe. Which leads me to a sad, sad decision: I gotta buy a pair of goth shorts. I hate to follow a mini trend, but the most active dancers seem to have gotten this lightbulb long ago. Of course, while buying shorts, I may as well get something besides a 3 dollar black hanes t-shirt from Old Navy, yeah? But then shit, why not footwear? Why not a reasonably pliable but offensively fetishistic pair of boots? Not those fucking low thigh high deals with 80 straps all up and down. I am not a kick and rock dancer. If gravity and the dance poles could allow it, I need boots that can get my balls to the ceiling. The ceiling. I accept nothing less.

And so next thing you know I've spent 300 dollars on crap I can wear twice a week. Maybe 4 if I decide to wear a tie with my shorts to work or something.

I mean granted I'll eventually buy the shit anyway because I like the scene, but I want my Canon EOS 30D.

I guess the one mitigating factor to camerahood is needing to buy furniture. That's convinced me I need to be, uh, "responsible" with my money. Responsible in this case means buying a bunch of shit before buying one piece of really expensive shit and lenses.

Y'know none of this'd be a problem if Scott hadn't been a selfishly ignorant son of a bitch and died on my mom. I had 3 grand coming from him that I obviously gave to her. I still can't believe that fucker didn't sign a will he'd thrown thousands of dollars at lawyers to finalize.

This also wouldn't be a problem if I were working normal American wages. For example, as a 'student hourly' in my lab (which is the only way my advisor can get me any cash at all), I make 10 bucks an hour.

Bear in mind I have a master's degree. That doesn't mean shit in this field, but come on.

So yak yak money money gothy gothy snappy shot snap. This all really comes to needing a sugar daddy who can pay me to look pretty. I actually did have one of those once but he was slightly too full of himself. I love Johnny to death to this day, but a spade is a pointy thing is a spade.

What was the point of all that?

I dunno.

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