I'm sitting and typing and just letting thoughts walk past my mind's eye. I'm not really thinking per se, because I'd feel it when I'm really thinking. I'm just a little grain of sand wandering down a cerebral beach. Oh look, an adorable crab.
I feel like bursting into song: How did we get here? How the hell? I think that perfectly captures my present sentiments. The worst pre-med hell week has come to pass, and now we find ourselves in a quasi-liberated state. What next?
The Biology results were unofficially released yesterday, and it wasn't good. I mean, I never expected our grades to be eye-candy-good, since this is not the Biology that you breezed through in high school that we're talking about. This one's different. There's a professor who, given the chance, would live in a purple universe with purple planets and purple stars. All around you - and even in your dreams at night - embryos are scattered like rubble, and though they're rubble, you're forced to feed on them because you have no other choice.
How did we get here? Tell us, Mark Cohen.
By June, we're supposed to be forty-three of the new white-clad braniacs of UP. But whether that number will indeed be the number that will be seen at the opening ceremonies in two months' time is still uncertain. Don't ask me. I don't have answers.
How the hell?
I've been listening to Sondheim for the past few days. The more I swim through his music, the more I feel like I'm floating on azure Carribean waters. The man's a freakin' genius. The 2006 revival recording of Company is currently conquering my air waves. It's a city of strangers.
I'm sitting here, and I'm not studying, nor am I feeling the prodding of books, the call for me to leaf through pages of facts and theory. This feels weird. But I'm still here.
And yet, I don't feel like myself. I mean, I don't feel anything. I guess I'm stable then.