Blogspot, flavored with dill and love.
As I open my eyes and crane my neck to check the time, the display of Joe's digital clock sears my eyes like a miniature arrangement of rubidium flares. It is 7:47 as I rouse myself to urinate--it's an apt time, given that I feel like an economy class passenger on a jumbo jet who just spent a trans-Pacific journey across the aisle from a particularly needy and lachrymose child. Despite a full six hours of sleep last night, I cannot remember a more zombielike trip to the toilet except for that time in 1995 when I actually did fly to the other side of the planet.
It is a testament to my weariness that, despite literally passing out with my shoes on, I had imbibed nothing so much as a goddamn hard lemonade last night. Fatigue alone whisked me off to a completely dreamless sleep with all the efficiency of an elixir of Nyquil, Ambien and Sodium Thiopental.
I had arrived at Joe's apartment a little before midnight, after a four-hour marathon of laboratory work performed to a backdrop of our TA's mid-to-late-90s musical sensibilities, that is to say: Pantera. Before that, I had an interview with an unapologetically terse hiring manager at Memorial Sloan Kettering--a Republican Guard style interoggation which stretched my ability to detail how to pluck out tiny murine lymph nodes with a set of talon-like tweezers (in essense, stealing mouse souls). That was the third morning interview of the week and*, on the way home, I missed my subway stop after falling asleep to the beguiling, wistful voice of David Rakoff.
The inability to understand this newfangled "rock" music. The exhaustion. The unabashed enjoyment of NPR contributors' audiobooks. These are the signs that I really am seventy years old already.
...weakened by the relentless sun and his exertions in digging out the Gastonia corpse, Raptor Red's mate sank inexorably into the pit. As the tar flooded his nostrils, he gave out a little burble--and then he was gone.
(If you get this reference, marry me.)
As I open my eyes and crane my neck to check the time, the display of Joe's digital clock sears my eyes like a miniature arrangement of rubidium flares. It is 7:47 as I rouse myself to urinate--it's an apt time, given that I feel like an economy class passenger on a jumbo jet who just spent a trans-Pacific journey across the aisle from a particularly needy and lachrymose child. Despite a full six hours of sleep last night, I cannot remember a more zombielike trip to the toilet except for that time in 1995 when I actually did fly to the other side of the planet.
It is a testament to my weariness that, despite literally passing out with my shoes on, I had imbibed nothing so much as a goddamn hard lemonade last night. Fatigue alone whisked me off to a completely dreamless sleep with all the efficiency of an elixir of Nyquil, Ambien and Sodium Thiopental.
I had arrived at Joe's apartment a little before midnight, after a four-hour marathon of laboratory work performed to a backdrop of our TA's mid-to-late-90s musical sensibilities, that is to say: Pantera. Before that, I had an interview with an unapologetically terse hiring manager at Memorial Sloan Kettering--a Republican Guard style interoggation which stretched my ability to detail how to pluck out tiny murine lymph nodes with a set of talon-like tweezers (in essense, stealing mouse souls). That was the third morning interview of the week and*, on the way home, I missed my subway stop after falling asleep to the beguiling, wistful voice of David Rakoff.
The inability to understand this newfangled "rock" music. The exhaustion. The unabashed enjoyment of NPR contributors' audiobooks. These are the signs that I really am seventy years old already.
...weakened by the relentless sun and his exertions in digging out the Gastonia corpse, Raptor Red's mate sank inexorably into the pit. As the tar flooded his nostrils, he gave out a little burble--and then he was gone.
(If you get this reference, marry me.)
posted by Byron at 11:57 AM
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