February 2010

You know that feeling you get in the pith of your liver when you have to write a grant that has unusual parameters? How your hepatocytes liquify as that unwelcome it’s not good enough, you’re not smart enough thought harries your neurons? Then your gallbladder calls in sick when it hears that you have a research presentation and paper deadline the day before the grant is due but the sequencing center still hasn’t run your plates. Can you hope to incorporate that data in time? Your stomach gave up after last week’s love affair with caffeine, and the final vestiges of self-esteem trickle away when you gaze into the mirror to discover that the barber has just cut your bangs at four different lengths across your brow.

Life disappoints.

But hark! The Olympic fanfare sounds from the living room. Ohno, Miller, Wier, Davis and White are on to remind you that the world is a fantastic place in which fantastic things can happen. And then, this appears on your dresser, and life is a little easier to take.


No, just in midterms, research funding apps, tech week, and an apartment with schizophrenic heat. Every time I think about research now I start humming Bad Romance.