Some Interesting Stuff...

Sherlock Is Destroying My Chances at Medical School

But, since I follow Mark Gatiss on twitter and you’re all highly interested, this is how he reports Sherlock survived the Reichenbach Fall.  Oh, sorry.  Spoiler alert.

PS:  The answer is, of course, that the television programme is actually set in the matrix.  Therefore, the Sherlock only had to mentally overcome his preconceived notions regarding the limitations conventional physics poses on the universe, and off he flew, in the intrepid style of Keanu Reeves.  I do hope he isn’t horribly bald in series three after having been unplugged.

JW

(My initials remain the same as John Watson’s).

Guess Who Knows Where Waldo Is?

Breaking news:  I do.  I found Waldo on my way back from my last class today.  Finally, my powers of observation are being put to good use.

A view walking through the hall:

Apparently universities enjoy storing fragments of historic artifacts in the basements of classroom buildings.  Can you guess where Waldo is?

See.  I found him.  Originally, this post was going to be about how bored I was, but I will admit that finding Waldo in real life turned around the day a bit.

I’ve decided that if he’s still there tomorrow, I’ll be hiding him again so he can be found again.  See, there are at least a few interesting people in the world.  Unfortunately, I can’t seem to locate these ones, despite my inherent ability to find Waldo.

JW

The Five Stages of Organic Chemistry Grief. Also, Justice?

For those who may be in throes of anxiety over what my grade is, let it be known (this authoritative tone is very satisfying) that I haven’t gotten it back yet.  You should also be informed that I’m unlikely to broadcast my score on the Internet, or at all, for that matter.  Well, that was a fairly exciting introduction.  Now for the actual entertainment.  This would be a good time for you to prepare yourselves, as I will be imparting groundbreaking insights with you.  With that expectation in mind…

In studying for my organic chemistry exam, I have developed a very concrete psychological theory – not unlike the prevailing Five Stages of Grief arrangement.  However, as this process applies to pre-med students and relates predominantly to test taking, I give you:

The Five Stages of Organic Chemistry Grief

1.       Denial

2.       Anger

3.       Bargaining

4.       Depression

5.       Acceptance

To illustrate this dynamic process, I will provide a personal example - a vivid case study, if you will - that occurred as I prepared for the exam.  (A more apt term may be “elaborate modern torture device.”)  Here, we shall follow the expected mechanism for the murder of one’s GPA.

1.        Denial.

24 Hours Before Exam:  “I have been studying for upwards for an average of five hours a day since Thursday.  Surely, the exam will not be that impossible.  I will at least get a B.  I will be content to have earned a B.”

2.        Anger

Ten Hours Before Exam, much more frantically:  “These professors are sadistic bastards.  IS THIS EVEN LEGAL?!  THEY MUST BE VIOLATING SOME LAW – GOVERNMENTAL OR OF NATURE.  They intentionally make an already incomprehensible subject at least fifteen times more difficult than necessary because they clearly have some sort of cruelty complex.  The material covered on the test has nothing to do with information covered in lecture or in the text, and thus the only way to study is by practicing old exam problems.  Which would be extremely helpful if we had answer keys.  Which we don’t.  It would also be beneficial for the professors to answer our questions about specific molecules.  Which they refuse to do.  THOSE BLOODY MOTHERF—”

(It may be helpful to read this aloud.  And, here, by “aloud,” I do mean you should be shouting until your throat begins to bleed).

3.        Bargaining

Five Hours Before Exam, attempting to rationalize:  “Fury will be useless in passing the exam.  If I calm down and study, I will not do as poorly.  Perhaps if I focus on the easier-to-grasp concepts, the exam won’t revolve around the ones that no one understands and the professors are unwilling to discuss in detail.”

4.       Depression

Three Hours Before Exam:  “Life has no meaning.  I am going to die, and my corpse will be left to rot and become infested with blood-sucking mutant alien gremlins in the auditorium for months until anyone realizes I’ve gone.  Doom, doom, doom…”

5.       Acceptance

One Hour and Forty-Five Minutes Before Exam:  “Screw it.  I don’t care.”

(I’m hoping I’m not misconstruing this response as a reinstatement of denial, which would indicate that the pattern is cyclical, non-reversible, and fatal).

 As you can see, organic chemistry is endeavoring to erase my existence.  Yet, I still prefer it to Calculus.  Because I hate math above all things apart from Tom Cruise, Alec Baldwin, and squirrels.

JUSTICE?

On Monday, my organic chemistry professor was beginning to lose his voice.  Today, it was nearly nonexistent, and yet he attempted to soldier on with the lecture and whatnot.  He acknowledged the fact that he sounded like someone’s ninety seven-year-old maiden aunt, who is also a fairy and a chain smoker (perhaps this wasn’t his exact phrasing), to the collective (evil?) laughter of the auditorium.  I have reason to believe that he is being punished for his cruelty that was exacted upon our innocent souls yesterday evening.  Actually, this is unlikely, but it’s a more amusing explanation for it than influenza.

Since it was quite hilarious to be taught about some basic physical chemistry (applied to organic chemistry, of course), by a bald man wearing a sweater and earrings (yes - two) who sounded somewhat like a Disney character on helium, I decided to test the voice recorder on my phone.  It didn’t exactly work excellently, but the high, weedy sounding tone is actually what he sounded like today.  Despite the implications of the background noise, we weren’t inside an aquarium; my phone is just useless at recording.  About a 1/3 of the way through will give the best sound quality of the five minute clip, which is posted below.

I have no life?
JW

My Public Persona

I’m expecting this to be a bit of an odd post, as I’m currently entrenched in studying for my organic chemistry exam, which is scheduled for Tuesday.  (This is the point in time when I generally have some sort of mild panic attack, etc.).  In fact, I’ve even had a few fleeting dreams/nightmares about drawing molecules.  If only my subconscious’s dedication translated into actual knowledge… but I mustn’t dwell on this too much.

PART 1

Anyway, as the title suggests, I’ve been considering my public persona - or, rather, a few random strangers’ utter misinterpretation of who I am, based on a fleeting impression I must be radiating in public.  For instance, last weekend I was seeing a film in the cinema with my family, who were kind enough to come to visit me.  This film may or may not have contained the illustrious Benedict Cumberbatch, but, if you were to make a bet on it, I’d only add that he may or may not have been a ginger and a spy.  Of course, this also may or may not have been my entire reasoning behind dragging my family to see the film… but it was actually quite good, really, on the whole.  Very cerebral and difficult to comprehend at some bits with an elaborate plot, which is quite relieving for someone who generally predicts the end of a film within five minutes of the introduction of the main character.  But, this is not the point I’m trying to make, because (usually) my Sherlock obsession is not projected to the world at large… not glaringly, at least.

I was in the restroom at the cinema washing my hands, ruminating about some insignificant plot point, when two middle-aged women began washing their hands as well.  One was older, perhaps slightly menopausal, and was speaking at length to the younger woman about her diet - or, rather, the one she thought she had ought to go on.  This was hardly interesting to me, and since ginger-Sherlock was still roaming about in my head, I almost nearly ignored their yammering on about their physical appearances and I declined to acknowledge the fact that the older woman had decided to stare at me in an evaluative sort of way.  Then, without preamble, she fully turns to me and says, “How tall are you?”

Reluctant to give out personal information to curious fifty-somethings in bathrooms, I said, “What?  Me?” in a way that suggested I didn’t actually know.

Then, she resumed staring at me as if she was conducting a very important investigation and says, “Yes.  You.”

“5’9”,” I answered, now wondering what why she had…

“How much do you weigh?”

I neglected to respond, somewhat aghast that certain people among us find it appropriate to inquire extremely bluntly about a random woman’s body size in a public restroom.   She then attempted to rationalize the question:  “Come on, just tell us.  You don’t even know us.”

My thoughts:

Well, that was precisely the point.  Why would this fact make me positively inclined  say?  I honestly don’t know.  A few seconds, raised eyebrows, and a poorly suppressed look of disapproval later, I resolved that telling her the truth would be the best option, if I wanted to bypass further interrogation.  “I have no idea.  I do not own a scale, and I weigh myself less than five times a year.”

This elicited a certain amount shock and awe on their part.  (Apparently, people must weigh themselves regularly.  Odd.  I consider myself a success if my clothes still fit, as I don’t have to spend money to purchase new ones).  Then, having regained the ability to speak, she said, “Are you a model?  You should be a model!”

… <—- initial response.  I was somewhat dumbfounded because, obvious to those who know me is the fact that I am one of the most unlikely people imaginable to parade about, scantly clad, on some long piece of floor and then dramatically spin around whilst people assault me with cameras.  That happens to be a rough estimation of my own personal version of hell, apart from having a famous politician a for a roommate.  Now, I realized very quickly that the woman in the bathroom likely was well-intentioned, so I remarked that I’d have to miraculously improve my sense of style by a significant margin before I’d ever have a chance at modelling.  I then seized the opportunity to flee for my life - I mean, graciously depart with haste - and nodded politely when they said I was pretty or something.

I also said thank you, but it probably looked a bit like this:

Now, I do appreciate that someone in the world think I’m decent looking, but I did not waste this portion of my life typing up the anecdote to begin any sort of compliment catalogue.  Rather, I find it somewhat incredible how distressingly wrong first impressions can be at times.  As for the compliment and appreciating it, I suppose it could be construed as a step in the right direction.  Hooray - someone thinks I might look alright.  It would be nicer still, however, for this someone to be a man.  A man relatively closer in age.  Who is single.  Who has an English accent.  Whose name is Benedict Cumberbatch.

Oh, yes, I am hopeful indeed.  Really, though, I think I should first aim for “man.”

—

PART 2

If you are still reading at this point, I am thoroughly amazed.  This one is shorter.  (I will take this moment to pause as you rejoice.  Alright, the moment has passed - put away the confetti).  Yesterday evening, I was hungry for the first time in nearly a week, and so I decided to drag my friend someplace where I could acquire something edible on our way back from the tango festival. 

I’m having a moment of privacy to be awestruck that I went to a tango festival.  This moment is now over as well.

As I was saying, I was starving, and so I found a Subway and ordered my sub.  I feigned a coughing fit to get the attention of the man working there who was in the back stocking, both because I hate going “EXCUSE ME?!” like an idiot and because I am simply that positively classy.  :snort:  I noticed that he was looking at me strangely in a way not unlike the woman the week before, and immediately I was somewhat concerned.  I ordered the sandwich without much issue, but then he too stared at me as if suddenly interested.

No, he didn’t call me pretty.  Don’t always believe foreshadowing is true.  He did, however, ask me a random personal question.

“Where are you from?”

“[insert my fairly boring hometown in the same state, although a few hours away]”

Then, he said something along the lines of “Oh, I see, hmm… mumblemumble.”  I must have indicated that he had better explain himself, because the quickly recovered and said something that probably made my life:

“Sorry.  You just sounded a bit like… you, know… you kind of sound like you have an English accent.”

Aloud:  “Oh, hmm.  Well, I do have fairly precise diction.”  (Which I do.  I pronounce t’s in words like water, tomato, and lettuce and watch enough BBC to say words like “simultaneously” and “innovative” differently; apparently, it throws people off).  Inwardly:  This is fantastic.  I sound like I’m English.  This fulfills many of my desires.  I am pathetic.  Who cares?!  I should move there.  Right now.  I’d save money on cable.  And guess what else will be in England?  Benedict Cumberb—

“Would you like anything to drink with your sandwich?”

And, then I spent a rather long time scrutinizing why I feel it imperative to pronounce things so deliberately not in the standard American accent.  I must have some sort of unresolved issue that I’ve internalized over the years.  I could see a therapist, but, truth be told, I’m quite enjoying whatever mental delusion I must be suffering from.

—

JW

This Explains the Universe.