Embarass yourself - This fantastic blog entry chronicles the author’s need to explain his restroom activities to a co-worker. I have to admit, I identify with the writer in that I also tend to worry unduly about what others are thinking of me. The consequences of this worry can be serious. And hiliarious.
Every once and a while, though far too often for it to be acceptable, I walk into the fourth floor elevator in the Owens Science Building on campus and punch the Floor 4 button. Then I hit it a couple more times and impatiently wonder why the door shut and the elevator is not moving.
Then I realize that, if I want to travel downwards, perhaps I should select a floor that is below the one I am on.
Oh, even better. The Kid Next Door is now singing in falsetto along with the song “Time’s A Wastin’” by June Cash and Carl Smith. The lyrics can be found on CowboyLyrics.com:
The cakes no good if you don’t mix the batter and bake it
And loves just a bubble if you don’t take the trouble to make it
So if your free to go with me, I’ll take you quicker than 1, 2, 3
Let’s go
Times a wastin
Today in quantitative chemistry, the lecture topic was the difference between detectors in common spectrography equipment. One detector (the photomultiplier tube) is extremely sensitive, while the other (the photo diode array) is significantly less sensitive (but cheaper). So the professor proposed the following question:
As I write this, the kid who lives next to me is singing along to a polka. It’s a long but very uptempo tune. He’s really getting into it; I can hear him through the wall quite well. He also laughs quite a bit when there is no one else in his room. At least he is happy.
Today, at the bottom of a routine piece of paperwork stating that I had read (and understood) the rules and regulations of OChem lab, I signed my name. This is something that I do every day, day in, day out, but today I signed the most beautiful letter ‘A’ I have ever written in my entire life. It was jaunty, yet balanced. Hip, yet outlined with classical curves. An thing of beauty. I sat and stared at it for a while, wondering how my writing based on the general principles of seizures had produced such a character of elegance.
Yesterday, while biking at a furious pace to check-out a book and photocopy it in time for a noon deadline, I found myself skidding almost completely sideways for 20 feet at 19 miles an hour. My bike tilted from the normal 90 degrees to the ground in slow motion. 80 degrees. 70 degrees. As it did so, my brain managed to register the high pitch squealing coming from my tires, a squeal which was abruptly stopped when my pedal slammed into the ground and bounced me back to a normal, upright riding position. I laughed nervously, and continued biking.
First thought: says Mykala on Friday night: “If there were a piece of pie in front of me right now, I’d eat it.” In a similar vein, Markoe picked up on a word I accidentally invented: “spamished.” Meaning “to be famished,” it is likely to catch on in many a social circle.
I hate the fact that the grass beside our sidewalks is not at the same level as the concrete. When one is on a bike and veers off the path to avoid rear ending pedestrians, this drop down is not a problem. However, when one tries to get back on the path from the grass and doesn’t take the extra effort to pull the front tire up, then one is found in the unfortunate situation of having their tire’s sidewall skittering along the concrete sidewalk, tipping the bike over. In this case, one might end up in an agonizingly slow tip, moving forward a bit faster than walking pace, continually stomping the ground with one foot like one who is trying to kill some imaginary bee on the ground. After a couple of these manic stomps, one has attracted the attention of everyone in the area, and realizes that being able to ride a bike in college is generally required and not optional. One can feel the hot gaze of peer rejection piercing through one’s neck, and realizes that something has to be done soon. With a final hard stomp, the tire comes up over the concrete lip, and one might laugh out loud to acknowledge full understanding of the absurdity of one’s incompetence.
The standard issue at St. Thomas is the semi-clear plastic cardholder, with a ring for keys. Nearly everyone has one, or a variation on it - it is enough to get you food, laundry, dorm access, room access, books, and groceries on campus. It is your life, encapsulated in a card and a key. That said, I lost mine today, if only for a short time.
Why hello. Welcome to tumbledry! Glad you could make it today. Ladies and gentleman, I am employed. Yup. I know. This job is perfect. Web-design for St. Thomas at $9.50 an hour, and I can work at home. Flexible hours, competitive pay, and more experience. It’s rather odd that I want to be a dentist but still persist at web-design. As for the internships, well those will come next summer.
