Thank you, Delta

I recently caught a flight from Indiana to NC. As I jammed my luggage into the overhead bin and meticulously folded my body into the seat, I quickly found this routine flight morphing into what could only be described as a Broadway musical.

The flight attendants perfectly fit the stereotypical friendly and fabulous flight attendant mold. There were three of them. All with crisp black uniforms, displaying tantalizing splashes of pink every now and then. And not just pink, but hot pink. There were two females, both tiny adorable black women. One had the perfect curls of a female afro, the type that women from every race quietly envy. The other sported the fastidiously styled beehive that only a half can of hairspray can supply. The third was male. A slender pale man with a tailored uniform to accentuate his metrosexual hipbones; his splash of pink taking the form of a starched button-down shirt beneath his black vest. Finely groomed facial hair topped by a dark head of hair with shine that every woman strives for, and a painstackingly placed side-part.

Aside from mere physical appearance, these attendants had the bubbly personality and lightness in their step that one expects to witness in a good flight attendant. They lithely flitted about the middle aisle during the pre-flight pep talk, until I was all but holding my breath in anticipation of the jazz band and choreographed dance.

Le sigh

Today showed promise...When I was successful in dragging my miserable bum away from the warm embrace of my bed. And then again when I fortuitously found a parking spot closer than Norway to my office building.

Then I dropped my coffee mug. I hoped as I finished parking that the vice-like lid safely stored the coffee within. Instead it broke. And coffee seeped out to form a nice tan puddle about my feet.

Then I was walking to the office and I lost the top of my muffin. It just fell off somewhere; I looked down and all I saw was the dismembered bottom half of a sweet potato muffin.

As I continued walking both of my shoes came untied. I didn't stop to tie them because it was raining and uncharacteristically cold for October. So as I walked both shoes loosened until they were slipping off my heels and making that awesome clip-clop horse sound on the sidewalks. Of course this led to one sock sliding down my foot until it came to a perfectly annoying bundle in the front of my shoe.

Did I mention it's raining?
I need to go back to the Oldsmobile and rest with it in our glorious parking space.



Your bullshit tastes like rancid milk
Your mouth feels like a dank breeze
Your expression is like a demented monkey
Your saunter like a retarded cat

Your words are gnats buzzing in my ear
Your thoughts are those of an inane fool
Your compassion like UFOs, simply not there
Your appearance is that of a cow chewing cud

Your embrace feels like a sweaty sauna
Your kisses, clammy like a sow’s breath
Your everything falls short like Mini Me’s height
Your sensuality, brutal as a crude neutered dog

The feelings you give, vile as rotting flesh
The reaction I have is like that to your bullshit
The pleasure I liken to Keanu Reeve’s acting
The memories, like chew spit stuck to my shoe

Your smile warped into that of the Joker
Your eyes on me feel like biting mosquitoes
Your hands rubbed me raw like course sandpaper
They polished away any good that you had


A little bday luv; and an UK recap.

What does it mean when you celebrate your birthday by cleaning your room, practicing a presentation, getting a coffee w/ a friend, and going for a run? Granted, the run is much needed; but still, I did say "a run," not "a beer." Well, whatever you've decided, that's what I am. But, eh, I think I'm ok w/ that; it was bound to happen at some point, right?

So England/Belgium (switching directions, pay attention)... was amazing. I have added to my life goals: "Buy a cottage in the English countryside, have multilingual babies that call me "Mum," and daily sit on my fabulous 400 year old porch whilst sipping my tea and feeling superior to all of the little people." Who are the little ppl, you ask - You. You are the little people.

On a more serious note, the history and character of Europe are beautiful and enchanting. Every street we strolled down was filled with charm. Every door was painted a different color and adorned with its own unique door knob, situated in its middle. The streets kept you guessing with their haphazard cobblestone. And the da Vinci-imitating street performer charmed his way into your pockets, to leave you four euro lighter.

Brussels was certainly an enlightening experience for me, as it was my first time meandering through a city of predominantly French-speaking ppls. I've always enjoyed being reminded by my surroundings that I am an insignificant speck in a vast world; you know, like when a mountainous terrain dwarfs you in its enormity, or a dessert landscape threatens to engulf you in emptiness. That is how sharing the streets with throngs of non-English speaking ppl made me feel. I loved it. It was like being a tiny imaginative kid again, and taking all of your stuffed animals and Legos and Barbies and GI Joes to your newly constructed blanket-and-chair fort in the sitting room, and devising your own little world while Mom runs the sweeper all around you...or maybe that was just me. Regardless, I felt like I was a wide-eyed bystander, watching as my accompanying pedestrians walked their way through life. I could do anything, and no one would notice; and I could say anything and no one would hear.
In reality, they probably would notice and would hear, as I was speaking the widely-spoken English language. I'm sure they did notice and did hear and turned to their companion and said, "Did you hear what that idiot American girl just said?"
Anyways it was great. And I want to thank the local Belgians who played along w/ our unfortunate French mutterings and who were very patient with our tedious orders from French menus.

I'll try and post some pics for your wonderment and delight. Not making any promises though. It's my bday and I do what I want - maybe I will; maybe I won't.


this Yank is headin' 'cross the big sea

In T minus 11 days I will alight in London. Prepare the landing strip, Redcoats, this American girl is coming to take back the city.

No, that was a bit extreme, I'm just going for a bit of a visit w/ a friend ( :) <- that's a smile for said friend upon me using the word "friend" to describe him. :), there's another one.). Admittedly, I believe my fam is a bit sussed by this whole escapade w/ a new friend of the male gender; but I'm sure that ordeal'll get sorted before all goes squiffy.

Anyroad, I've been talking of a much-needed vacay for a good while now, so I've decided to quit being all mouth and no trousers, and head on out. So stay tuned for some stories, as I fancy to meet some interesting blokes and birds. And if you're lucky, perhaps I'll come back w/ a wee bobbin for ya.

(And if you're already sick of, what I'm sure is, my very annoying and American-ized attempt at British slang then you should prob just disregard the coming blog or two.)


Glory Days

I ignore my soul's inquiries,
And start down the path you have set.
My feet are blistered, my knees scarred,
And where are you to help me up?

Starved of my own avidity,
I glut myself with your ambitions.
My body gags at the purging,
My betraying mind discounts my efforts.

I shake hands
I smile
I talk in your words

I tear apart
I crumble
I lie to the world

Peeled back my skin with knives of glory,
I've put on the faces you've approved.
But the phantom pain has not faded,
It's time to find a face of my own.

The stakes you've laid have deserted me,
Ripped from my bones to leave them in shreds.
Fragments left for welding together,
A composition distinct of your will.

I've been directed
I've followed
I've nodded my head

I'll break free
I'll abandon
I'll finally assail


Bother me tomorrow, today, I'll buy no sorrows

I keep finding myself waiting for my life to begin - tomorrow. Tomorrow, when I’m finished with grad school. Tomorrow, when I’m doing something I’m proud of. Tomorrow, when I’ve got a bit of money saved up to go…just to go. Hell, anywhere’ll do. Tomorrow, when I’m old enough that nobody will feel the need to tell me how to live. Or at least tomorrow, when I’ll be confident enough to tell those ppl to take that advice and shove it…somewhere inappropriate. Tomorrow, when I’ll start making a difference.

How foolish though. That pride and that confidence will only come from living and falling. Falling hard at times, but then picking myself back up. And grad school, who knows if this jaunt will ever find its destination! And those people? Those people that know where I can find success and happiness – they’ll always think they know better than I. And that’s fine. I’ll listen, hell, I’ll even nod my head. I’ll file your advice away into that little compartment in my head dubbed “Worldly wisdom;” and then I’ll go join all the happy creatures dancing on the lawn – the giant doing cartwheels, the statue wearing high heels, the tambourines and the elephants and the band.

So how about I start that life today instead? I'll start it with this dance around the living room, by myself. I’m locking the front door to the world's forwarded troubles, and sneaking out the backdoor with all the happy creatures. We’ll be the ones dancing on the lawn, with CCR screaming from the surround sound. Hopefully the neighbors will hear.

(Thanks to CCR – that prodigious American band, born in the 1960’s but still rocking us all today – and their vivacious (if not slightly drug-induced) lyrics.)


Postscript 5.04.09

I would like to inform all (two) of you loyal readers that I am still alive and well after my previous post; you can call off the suicide watch.
I was PMSing. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
And while I do indeed continue to detest my grad student status; I'm going to keep muddling through until I come out on the other end as a scientist (*snicker snicker*).


Cut the ropes

Does happiness count when it exists only in the presence of other ppl?
I used to have the joy of a frolicking school boy on the jungle gym with only recess left in his school day. Now I don’t even know if I have happiness.

When is it acceptable to make the announcement that you’ve reached your limit with something? That there can be no more pushing forward? No more persevering? No more killing yourself to strive for something that is just not worthy of your strife? And what if you really did die over such things? Would ppl see that as a worthy death? Would they proclaim at your funeral that you were a passionate, motivated girl who persevered in times of adversity and shared her joy and love of life with others? I think even hearing those words would cause tears to fall from my corpse’s eyes; they’re so untrue anymore.

How often is normal to wish to die? Once a month? A week? Twice a month? When do you call truce w/ your pitiful soul and start telling ppl you’re depressed and begin medicating to numb the dull?
Are you supposed to tell ppl these feelings? If I confide in you are you going to empathize w/ me? Or are you going to hold my hand and try to console me? Don’t hold my hand.

How is it possible to lose oneself so much? I know that some drops of my essence have evolved for the better…but was it worth losing my passion and perseverance, my joy and frolicking abilities?
When do I get to say, “I’m done.” Cut all of the ropes and let me fall.
I do nothing but piss my time away here anyways. Piss my time away and be angry. Anger is my default setting..Is anything worth that?

How do you know if your feelings are warranted, or if you’re just being pathetic, feeling sorry for yourself?

Is it possible, in a quest to find yourself and happiness, to parasitically squeeze the life out of everything that you once loved? Until those cherished fixations become hated addictions? Or just simply hated?
How long can you continue on in such a form? And when you finally fall and come to a merciful respite in your life, will anyone understand? Or will they simply look upon you with the judging eyes of pity? Or disdain?

How do you pick yourself back up? Peel yourself off the pavement, mend the brokenness, and discover a different direction worthy of your tears and toil.

But this direction wouldn’t steal the being from you or selfishly suck the life from your grasps. It wouldn’t only be tears, and work, and perseverance; it would also be gratifying to the life you devote to it.
When do I get to do this? Why not now?


F*ck us and our flashbulbs

That was the theme for my and Sam’s journey to 3rd and Lindsley in Nashville, TN. Sigh, that now epic journey for two American girls to relish in and swoon over the beautiful voices of two British boys – Sam Bradley and Bobby Long.

Admittedly we did, as did every other teenage to twenty-something female, originally become familiar with the musical talents of Bobby and Sam B only post-Twilight era. These two boys’ lives have forever been altered due to the infamous success of their equally scrumptious friend, Robert Pattinson, and his use of their songs in the Twilight movie. Regardless of our introductions, however, we are now forever bound to these two talents purely for their innate worth in music, good looks, and British accents.

Thus, when Sam (the friend) and I discovered that Sam B (the talent) and Bobby would be bringing their fine selves to Nashville, we rushed to assure our seats with the rest of the hormone-driven, culture-starved female masses longing to be serenaded by the likes of two Brits. We bought our tickets, we waited with bated breath, and finally, last week we made the five hour road trip to meet our destiny.
Commence ridiculous fan-girls.

Yes, as shamed as I am to admit it, my dear girl, Sam, and I unquestionably morphed into teenage, musician-stalking fan-girls. This is getting ahead of myself though; let me take you to the beginning of our trip so as not to leave out even one detail of absurd behavior…
Now don’t get me wrong, we were giddy from the beginning. However, in the beginning the giddiness was kept in check. Through the five hour drive and stops for coffee and lunch and bathroom breaks and coffee again, and even upon arrival to Nashville and through a meal of bar food on Music Row – the giddiness was kept in check. Not until later in the night was it fully unleashed. I blame the alcohol.

Let me take a moment though to express just how talented and beautiful these two songwriters truly are: Sam Bradley comes out on stage with a laid-back and vibrant air about him. You can just feel his excitement to be there playing for people who appreciate his music. In direct compliment to Sam B’s outgoing ways, Bobby Long is diffident and nervous, keeping to himself before he goes on and occasionally letting out a bit of a giggle as he stumbles over some lyrics. Undoubtedly, these artists have a promising future ahead of them; hopefully, one in which we will all have the opportunity to bear witness to their passion and talent for music.

OK, back to my and Sam’s foolish debauchery.

We arrived at 3rd and Lindsley where the show was to take place, and start out the night by looking for the bathroom but stumbling into the dressing room, where we proceed to become very well acquainted with the two men of the night…No, unfortunately that’s a lie. We were looking for the bathroom and we did happen upon the dressing room, however we were not yet brave enough (probably, and luckily, due to the lack of liquid-courage at that early stage of the evening) to 'accidentally' fall into the dressing room door… ah well.We proceeded to fold ourselves into the only square foot of available space (stealthy disregarding the “No standing” signs), which just happened to position us strategically beside the bar, and directly in front of the stage. Sam then proceeded to pound back Corona after Corona. After Corona. Unluckily for my liver, every time Sam needed a new beer, she deemed it appropriate that I also received a new whiskey and diet. Thus, the ridiculousness began…
Sam Bradley is the first to bring his extraordinary self onto stage and give the crowd a fulfilling performance. All is relatively calm in my and Sam’s square foot throughout his show. Only at one point do I cry out, “Play ‘Soho Whores’!” To which Sam B replies, “That’s my final act! You don’t want me to finish up do you?!” And then he makes a bit of a perverted comment about ‘finishing up,’ and we all have a good laugh.

Please bear witness to the worshipping cries of fan-girls:

Now it is Bobby Long’s chance to wow the crowd with his charm and talent.
But first, Sam and I decide that we need to rush outside to where he is waiting to go on stage, and beseech the poor boy for a photo. To do so, Sam (my asthmatic friend) and I decide that we should pretend to be smokers.
Sam (to random smoking fan-girl): Hi, can we bum a cigarette off of you please? Neither one of us brought smokes tonight because we’ve been desperately trying to quit…obviously to no avail.Random smoking fan-girl: Sigh and eye-roll. (Hands Sam a cigarette.)
Me (in the background): Giggle. Giggle.Neither Sam nor I smoke normally; oh, but we do tonight. Yes, Sam is a trooper, taking a couple of tar-filled inhalations even whilst the asthma clutches at her throat.

We then get the object of our affection in our scopes and zero in.
Me: Hi, I’m really sorry but can I get a picture w/ you? (Obviously I am lying – I’m not sorry, I’m in full-fledged fan-girl mode.)
Bobby (pacing nervously and adorably): I’m about to go on. I’m just really nervous and excited. I’ll get a picture w/ you after the show; I promise.

Yeah, you can bet we will hold him to that one...
After the show, he walks out the door in front of me.
Me (as I unabashedly grab his arm): You promised to take a picture w/ me! (As you read this, picture the devil bursting forth from my throat as I claim my rights to this photo and you will have an inkling of the intensity with which I spoke these words.)
Bobby (a bit confused): Huh? Uh, yeah OK.I shove my camera at Sam and go by Bobby’s side to have our pic taken.
Sam: Umm, excuse me!
Sam protests not being in the pic. So we all get side to side and Sam sticks out her arm for what is sure to be a magnificent self-portrait of us. The only prob is that Sam is about 5 foot nothing, thus her arm doesn’t extend out quite far enough.
Bobby (in reaction to the close-up photo shoot): Woah..that’s close.
Me (as I take the camera from Sam so I can take the pic): Here, let me take it; I have go-go-gadget arms. (It’s true, I do. And yes, I did say this to a famous person…)
I attempt to take the pic. It doesn’t take. I am very confused and mumble something about my lame camera, to which Bobby says something in his delicious accent that unfortunately prevents me from deciphering half of every sentence he speaks.

(Please excuse the French exclamation.)

I think I fix the camera and turn it around for one more go.
Me: Real quick, let’s try again.Camera: Click
Success! Bobby walks away from us relieved. Sam and I turn the cam to see the pic, barely containing our excitement…and then we crack up laughing. Here’s why:

Obviously we will have to trouble him for another try.

So, we wait in line w/ all of the other (sober) fan-girls.
Let me just step back and explain something quick: I emphasize the fact that the other fan-girls are sober because, well, Sam and I are not. And from the stares that we receive throughout the evening, we believe that said fan-girls think we are an atrocity to the performers, their talent, and the fact that they are gracing us w/ it. But whatev, if they can’t have a good time, that’s their prob.

Anyways, as I wait in line for our next photo shoot, Sam goes back in for another round of drinks, coming back w/ a whiskey for me, a beer for her, and a beer for Sam B. Then she drops Sam B’s beer. It shatters on the concrete patio and all the fan-girls turn w/ the hatred of a thousand demons and stare w/ daggers flying from their eyes, aimed for our hearts.

We happen to think it’s pretty damn hilarious.

Finally we get to Bobby, for our 3rd photo attempt.
Me (thrusting my CD at him): Here, will you sign my CD case? But sign the back, not the front; cause your face is pretty. (His face was on the front of the CD cover, and very pretty btw.)
Sam, in an exemplifying display of our class, has him sign her empty Corona bottle. And we successfully get a picture.

On to Sam Bradley. We effectively maneuver our way through the fan-girl hoard to him.
Sam: Can you sign my Corona bottle? Oh, and I bought you a beer…but I’m really drunk and I dropped it. AND THEN I GOT GLASS IN MY FINGER!Sam B: Uh oh, you did? Somebody call a doctor! (Read this w/ a British accent to get the full effect.)
Me: Will you sign this empty whiskey glass? (Again, a display of our class; in our defense, we had no other sign-able objects. And at least we didn't have them sign our chests.)
Sam: Yeah, OK…So you bought this glass, right?
Me: Right, yeah of course… Hey wait! You have to put my name! ‘To Stacey!’ Oh! And you should put ‘To Stacey, my love.’Oh yes, Sam Bradley signed my stolen whiskey glass w/ “To Stacey, my love.”

And thus concluded our evening w/ Sam Bradley and Bobby Long.

Of course, we couldn’t let our evening end there; I mean, we had to grace Music Row with our presence, right? So we proceeded to Music Row to dance with lots of cowboys and in general, have everyone and the angels laugh at us.
One particular couple was graced w/ an extra morsel of our presence. The boy was very cute (as was the girl to her credit) so of course I decide that we need to mess w/ him. So I go over and grab his butt – full-on booty-grabbage, both hands, both cheeks. Then Sam goes for the one-handed grab. Then the g/f shoots us some of those too-familiar daggers...so we go and give her high-fives.

Back at the hotel we decide that we need to order 3-course meals of garlic bread, spaghetti w/ meat balls, and salad, at 3:30am. Half an hour later the food comes. Sam answers the door, pays them, and passes back out. The sweet fragrance of Italian cuisine awakes me; I nudge Sam awake, hand her a fork and begin chowing down with a vengeance. And with my hands. I’m eating spaghetti w/ meatballs w/ my hands. Sam finishes hers and passes back out; I power on to the garlic bread and eat a family of four’s worth.
The next morning, Sam reported that she kept waking up every 5 minutes. She would see me eating garlic bread, pass out again, wake up and I’m still going at it, think how it’s not fair and that she wants some bread and then pass out again. Whatev, her and the family of four can starve.
We got 30 minutes of sleep, then drove the 5 hours back to Indianapolis so I could make my tattoo appointment the next day...


Oh, and p.s. The theme for our trip, “F*ck us and our flashbulbs,” is an adaption from a Kings of Leon song – look up the lyrics. We decided it was a great song and that we would sing it very loudly everywhere we went. Including yelling/singing “F*ck you and your flashbulubs” w/ the windows down and sunroof open, as we parked directly in front of a quaint cafe in Broadripple…more nasty stares and daggers from the patrons eating on the patio. We think quite a number of them gave themselves a whiplash.

P.P.S. I want to apologize to any of you who read the entire length of this post, got to the end, and thought, 'That's it? That's the story?' ...I'm pretty sure you had to be there to fully grasp the hilarity of it all. And alcohol while you were there would prob help as well.


WTF?! Free tics to KOL?! OMG!!!!

It's official, my day has been made, thanks to a combination of the fabulous boys of KOL, my bf, Sam, and her deliciously kind mama who accomplished something that every parent should strive to do at least once in their parenting life: She bought her daughter (aka Sam) and a friend (aka Me) 6th row concert tickets for an amazingly dirty and delectable band (aka Kings of Leon). Sixth row concert tickets in front of the band's amazingly delectable bass guitarists, Jared Followill.
Now, if you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting the Followill boys through their innovative melodies and shrewd lyrics, please, allow me to introduce you: http://www.myspace.com/kingsofleon.
These, my dear reader, are not only astonishingly talented musicians, these are artists concerned with the prosperity of their fans. Artists who are willing to share lyrics about their own debacles for the sake of educating listeners about the heart, relationships, and life. AKA love, sex, and rock and roll.
For example, pay close attention to the lyrics in "Soft" and kindly keep them in mind the next time you try to seduce that fair maiden with your stoned and drunken charms. And if you ever find it difficult to restrain those sexual urges without the proper protection in place, simply call to mind the infamous "Pistol of Fire." On a more sedated note, take a second in those hard times when you've got to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, and sing a couple lines from "Cold Desert."
Ah, yes, the men of Kings of Leon are outrageous, talented, and unparalleled.
And I will be there, once again, to witness them at their best. Sam and I will be the two in the 6th row, standing in awe of the beauty and talent that is Kings of Leon.
"Good time to roll on."


sordid affairs

Why do ppl act out the crazies after a night of ill-fated affairs? I mean, really, how much has changed concerning the relationship involved?
And if alcohol played an essential role in the relations, and the memory is vague... then really, how much has changed?

If neither of the involved parties makes an atypical effort towards communication post-romp, is it not safe to assume that mutual feelings, between said parties, have not changed, and that the implicated individuals should go on living life, just as they were?

And besides all of which, why is it routinely assumed that the female party is the one to inevitably act the fool after all is said and done (or as often is the case...not done quite so well)?
In situations comparable to the one described, I have often observed a wonderfully beautiful, smart, and talented female attempting to act civil; all the while, the male is the first to perform the archetypal awkward scene:

She walks in with all of her astounding beauty and grace, calmly strides over and says her hellos to the group of mutual friends. Meanwhile, he immediately and clumsily looks away, even going as far as tripping over the bar stool next to him to find his escape, undoubtedly to the bathroom and its welcoming urinals.

I mean, her beauty is radiating, but not quite so that it should cause one to look away.
Certainly, a brief awkward encounter is expected after such an inopportune escapade; but one that the female was well prepared to barrel past via witty commentary.
What happened to a couple civil jokes, a clap on the back, and a mutual understanding that, although entertaining, such alcoholic urges should never again be pursued by the two parties?
But once the aforementioned male party makes the unfortunate first move of ducking his head and slithering away, he is automatically calling forth all of this unnecessary awkwardness. And thus, suddenly there is a big fat pink elephant in the room that just shit in the lovely girl's drink.
Now tell me (And her, please.), how is she supposed to recover after such a move? No witty comment could easily or sufficiently clear the air after a stink like that.


i heart my brother

I was looking at the PostSecrets from this past week and came across this guy:

Reminds me of my big brother. He's always been rather protective of me, his innocent, bambi-eyed little sister; and I don't think I've ever understood it. I've definitely never understood it when he rambles on about how he would "have to hurt" anyone who ever messed w/ me. Probably, I've thought it all a bit ridiculous and testosterone-driven.
But I'm lucky - I've got the best big bro in town. Sorry if yours is good, he's still not as cool as mine.

P.S. Heart your face, big brother!


Blog uno.

Allow me to introduce myself:
I'm a grad student. At the end of this tedious strife for a degree I will be a scientist.
That was me - laughing at the fact that the title of "scientist" could one day be applied to my individual. Haha

I'm mid-middle aged. I'm not quite old/gettin' up there yet, but not quite young. I'm more in that place of limbo where you're not certain what "age-appropriate" means anymore. You know, age-appropriate dress, age-appropriate behavior, age-appropriate language ... blah blah blah. I'm thinking that I fall into the "inappropriate" category more often than not.

I'm also a yoga instructor and running coach of sorts. However, these two vocations don't trigger laughter in me..they make me smile.

I'm not career-oriented. Zero orientation going on here.
Prob more accurate to say negative orientation going on.
I'd say I'm more... life-oriented. Ha, yeah, I like that. Of course it makes me sound like a complete hippie..ah well.

And this brings me to an explanation for my blog:
I was filling out the profile info and came to "Occupation". Scrolling through the choices my thought process went something like this: 'Boring, boring, boring, eww, ugh, lame.' And that's when I came to the choice of "Not Specified." Now this I like. Why do I need to be specified? Whatev, I won't be specified. Check out me, stickin' it to the man and going with "Not Specified." So now that's my username. And my blog title "Ambivalent" goes along the same line of thinking.
Plus I hate coming up w/ things such as usernames and blog titles, so each of these fits quite nicely for that reason as well.

Essentially, I find being a pseudo-scientist (Pseudo because I have yet to graduate, the second time.) quite mundane most of the time. And very hard to focus on.. For example: right now I'm blogging at my scientist-desk rather than science-ing at my scientist-desk.
Oh, and p.s. there's an adorable boy still retaining his new-car-smell in my office building; and cute boys never help to generate productivity.. Nor do blogs..