Contradiction Triangle

I am just so fucking pissed at this point! Oh! OH!

Friday was the day of Three Contradictions. Sounds like one of those horrible 'let's-have-99c-sundaes-on-Sunday' things, does it not? I hate the fact that I get to sit, as pretty as you please, in the midst of the triangle that the Three Contradictions so fluidly form around me. Let's make our visit, shall we?

1) "You really need to work harder. Or not so hard. Or maybe, just channel the hard-work in the right direction: the direction of the stuff that is actually going to be on the test."

This is what my Biochemistry test told me this morning. It's hateful to stay up till ungodly hours going over such a frighteningly large amount of material, and then just...blank out the next morning. Of course, it came to me. The furtive 'going over' from the night before did manage to seep in through the crevices of this brain. But that moment of absolute silence between the arrival of the test on my desk and the seeping in, left me chilled. By the time the slow seeping had hastened to a steady flow, the test was done with, and I was in Physics, trying to speak Newton. In three dimensions.

This semester is officially my semester of exotic, foreign languages.

First, there's Biochemistry: my spoken Amino Acid is stilted, and has a learned quality to it. My written Amino Acid is conscientious and full of scratched out functional groups. Hell, there should be a course named 'Translating Amino Acid- The Language of Protein Architecture'. Oh I just made such a vilely geeky joke there, that I just want to douse myself with cheap beer so as to mask the self-righteous stink of Eau De Pseudo-Nerd.

Second, there's Immunology with its abbreviations: TNF, PRR, PECAM, C3b-Bb-Bb, C2aC4b: Gaaah! These make sense to me individually, but when they are all thrown at me with the vigour that only IgTinaFey (my professor) has, I feel like a destitute non-sportive, ex-fatty trying to catch a whole swarm of angry, abbreviated volleyballs. I'm pressed against a wall, and they crash right at me. Bruised, but smiling: Ah, it hurts so good...

As far as Physics is concerned, I have never spoken Newton. Never will. That's that. So there! Ah-ha! And other platitudes of over-enthusiastic affirmation, that I shall use to mask my disappointment into myself.

I am turning into a Freshman: I am disorganised, and my diet includes a lot of soda and cereal. I had this down to a science last year: bustling and harried? Yes. Messy and disorganised? Not so. O God, O God! I can only wish that things look up...

2) "You really need to stop being so hard on yourself."

My therapist, Dick Diver II, is a charming lady. She's supportive, she listens, and, so far, has no intention to start mind-fucking me. I find that I am happiest when in therapy, because when not in therapy, I dream dreams that have me in a French maid costume, bent over Sigmund Freud's left knee, talking about my issues as he spanks me with a feather duster. After a talk with Hamlet, it turns out that Freud now says, "Why are you having this dream?" within the dream. It's all very artsy with "No-you-won't-get-it" yearnings. And let's face it, constant reader, non-pretentious neuroses are hardly neuroses at all! You don't go to therapy for those, you seek hugs or food or something.

At any rate, Dick Diver II, told me what Dick Diver I told me too: "Stop being so hard on yourself." You see how this is a contradiction? If you don't, I suggest you read #1 again. Hard on myself? Oh! OH! I should be fucking horsewhipped!

3) "Of course, you can get into Georgetown!"

Dr. Transposon, my academic advisor, is an all-round great guy. He's a brick, he's the cat's meow, the bee's knees, and I really think that the dated slang is getting a little demeaning. But you get it right? Given the day I had had, the last thing I wanted to talk about was grad school, because my chances of getting into one of those recondite places seemed very, very unlikely. As Dr. Transposon and I talked of grad school, a few fancy names (much like the one above) were thrown around, and I disdainfully went "Yeah right!" and even "As if!" I don't know if I actually used the latter. It's very unlike me. But hey, I was conflicted, so it could have happened. Even though I hope to God it didn't! But Dr. Transposon rejoined with a very pragmatic, "Why not?" And that's all it took, really, for the sun to emerge defiantly onto the livid mindscape of my contradictory day.

"I don't know" is something that I say a lot these days.

I don't know if I will ever fluently speak those avant garde Sciencey tongues.
I don't know if I will ever be truly, truly happy with me.
I don't know if I will get into Georgetown.
All I know is what the little boy in 'I Am David' knew and held so dear: I am me. That is all.

Until the next time,
GossipGuy.