A majority of the entries on this journal are first penned on paper before slowly making their way here. Even so, I’m finding it hard to put down my thoughts while lacking access to the Internet at home; it’s like I don’t see the point in writing when there isn’t an option to put it out there instantly, on a whim.
That’s a little weird, I know.
Anyway, pencil firmly gripped in my fingers, I intend on ploughing through this entry because it’s 3 A.M. and I’ve been unable to sleep; which usually means I really have to get something off my mind. Or that I’ve overdosed on sugar.
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Things are going as well as they can be on the work front. I’ve formulated something of a plan and I fully intend on sticking with it until I complete my programs’ requirements. I’ve been in-and-out of meetings all day attempting to schedule things so that I can defend before my birthday; and as of now, it looks like it’s going to happen. This means that if all goes well, in about a month-and-a-half, me’d be Dr. Me. Yay!
Is appending 2–3 characters to one’s name really worth the effort? Most definitely.
Not.
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Necessitated by one of my bosses’ travels, I’m going to be teaching a graduate-level class for a little while next term. This ought to be interestingly-different from an undergrad class, where one’s literally forced to reach the lowest common denominator. It would be nice to focus on abstract, higher-level concepts without having to water things down constantly for that annoying little whiner in the back row.
Here’s to hoping.
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There’s this new kid in my lab—at least I think he’s in my lab, I’ve seen him around once or twice—who was part of a major accident. One involving driving at few A.M., non-seat-belt wearing, probable drunkening and car flipping. There were 4–5 people involved and all were seriously damaged, but none dead. Barely.
It’s not about this but I’m going to make it: They’re all Indians.
If you weren’t allowed to drive at 4 in the morning, at 100 mph, drunk, not wearing seat belts, … back home, you probably weren’t for a reason. There is no reason to interpret your newfound freedom as some sort of right of passage to being an idiot.
I’m not trying to be mean, really, but it’s just so hard for me to conjure up any sympathy here.
And oh, if you’re the kinds who interprets and believes dreams literally, you’d be happy to believe that my future colleagues at Cambridge are a fine collection of practical jokers; a real riot. And that I’m gay.