An Outlet...

...for my nimiety of expressive need.


I was perfectly fine, asleep and peaceful. Until I woke up. 

So now I am looking up possible psychological disorders I may have. I found a bunch. The crux is that if I ever decide to seek help, there is no pill or medication that can fix any of them. Just therapy. I, of course, would make a wonderful therapist. But to be therapied? I think not. Not to mention the fact that the main therapy for impulse control (for instance) is hypnosis. 

I think I will just try to not acquire a, or aggravate any preexisting, mental illness. 

I cut out a baby chick from it’s yolk and put it on a slide. It was absolutely amazing, but drenched in guilt at the same time. The next day I did it with another egg and it had blood flowing through the heart. That was cool enough to override the guilt. 

Brain Fuzz

It took me at least 5 reads to finally make sense of this paragraph. I was way more efficient this morning. 

Glycoproteins can be defined as proteins that are co- or posttranslationally modified with oligosaccharides (glycosylated). In comparison with proteoglycans, the carbohydrate content of glycoproteins is much smaller. There is no rigid template-dependent guidance of glycosylation. This explains microheterogeneity of glycoproteins, which is variability in carbohydrate composition.”

Why must my brain forsake me when chemistry shows it’s masterful concoctions???

I am afraid that if you look at a thing long enough, it loses all it’s meaning.

—Andy Warhol

A Conceit/ed Individual

Consider Canelo. He is the most beautiful beagle on earth; only a slight exaggeration. He also loves us, to a degree that is almost absurd. His days revolve around sleeping on us, kissing us and jumping on us every time we get home because we were obviously never coming back and he was completely taken by surprise when we did. Taking all this into account, you would think that the metal bars that compose his cage would cause psychological mayhem in him, an unpreventable capitulation into hysteria. Yet, when the keys jingle, the clack of hurried heals reaches the door and the distant beep of the car unlocking is caught, Canelo sits patiently. He awaits the command that will dictate his entrance to the seemingly wretched cage that tears him away from his loved ones. As soon as we say “a la camita Canelo” he runs in to the back corner of his prison, curiously considering us as we latch the door he has no hope of opening with his lack of opposable thumbs. I spend more time than is probably advisable considering my dog. Obviously this strange behavior caused a DNA helical “turn over” in my mind. My conclusions?

Canelo’s bed is his comfort. It wasn’t always like this. But as the stretches of time he was left along grew longer and longer, so did his surroundings become more familiar. Until finally, the prospect of spending hours without us in a giant house became the claustrophobia, and his bed became the wide open fields. There he can lie on his two comfy pillows and baby blanket. Quiscent, calm, free from even having to consider sleeping on a couch or bed without a warm body next to him and a friendly hand rubbing his back.

The Latin Rhythm memo was my cage. A supposedly irritating task, easy enough to copy and paste and be done with. I couldn’t do it though. I enjoy writing so much, but I hide from it. I was fearful that if my status’s included metaphors and complicated vocabulary I would be judged as possessing palaver. So I took to the memo like Canelo took to his cage. I made it my safe spot to hide from the negative assessment of myself and conveniently revel in the esteem my tone conjured. I took a break from writing the memo for Lent. I fell into a pit of melancholy. Finding any outlet for my expression, I was forced to concede to personal statements in resumes and Microbial homework meant to be written in technical prose. Circumstances forced me to go back to writing the weekly message again. It was ecstasy, my fingers ached from writing and rewriting all the necessary dispatches until they were perfect, but it was a good pain. But, once again, I find myself without my release. I amicably passed on my title as secretary. As dejection threatens to grip me again, I must find a solution. Thank god for blogs.