Schrödinger rationalizes some unresolved anger

I recently found, on teh interwebz, a digital copy of a record that I absolutely adored when I was a wee lass. For reals, I nearly wept. I have purchased this record three times in my life. Copy 1 was used as a scratching post by my cat. Copy 2 mysteriously disappeared from my record collection. I tracked down copy 3 in Germany, and let me just say that it was quite an adventure navigating the all-German website to buy the damn thing. Since my turntable is back home in AZ, I wasn't able to play it right away. I discovered, months later, that copy 3 had a fine scratch that causes the damn thing to skip. Fuck me.

So I found this gem online and downloaded it. I love how after 12 years I still know every word. Awesome.

I was (and continue to be) a huge fan of punk rock. In fact, I can always tell how much the lab is sucking my soul by how much punk I listen to at work. It's a directly proportional relationship. More hatred = more punk rock. That being said, I never called myself a "punk." It just felt dirty - the reason being that by the time I started listening to it, punk was very dead.

I've long felt that punk is like Schrödinger's cat. What is Schrödinger's cat, you say? It's my favorite quantum paradox. Since quantum physics is pretty hard to comprehend, this paradox attempts to explain to us chimps the nature of subatomic particles in quantum states. For example, electrons, as they orbit the nucleus, can spin "up" or "down". The electrons in an object such as your body will spin both "up" and "down" at the same time. This is called a superposition of states.

Since this doesn't really make sense to us in the real world, Schrödinger came up with this theoretical scenario in which a cat is put in a totally enclosed box with a radioactive isotope, a geiger counter, and some poisonous acid. If the isotope decays, the geiger counter detects the radiation and releases the acid - which, of course, kills the cat. Equally likely, the isotope may not decay and the cat will remain alive. Since the box is totally enclosed, we will not know what happens until we open the box. Therefore, the cat is both dead and not dead - a superposition - until we "perform a measurement" and open the box. In so doing, we force the superposition in to a particular outcome: the cat will be dead, or it will not be dead. We forced it to adopt a state by measuring it.

Such as it is with punk rock. It existed only as punk rock until it was called punk rock. Then it was, as Schrödinger might say, dead. The very idea and nature of punk rock, arising organically out of the ether and totally anti-mainstream, stopped being punk as soon as someone called it punk and gave it a face and a uniform. I mean, it's an even bigger paradox to be against the mainstream while being a mainstream movement. It still exists as a genre of music, but as a movement? Nope.

Of course I'm sure some people might not like this interpretation, but fuck it. I'm not saying that individuals can't have the spirit of punk rock - far from it. There are tons of vagabonds who could easily be described as such. But to wear the uniform is just plain silly. It's no different than a poodle skirt.

These are the things I think about when I can't sleep. Then I think about my proposal and I'm quickly in dreamy-dream land.

Some good news

I have successfully passed written comps. This is fan-fucking-tastic, because I was pretty sure one of the professors was going to fail me on one section. So, yay! That is the last exam I will ever have to take, which is awesomeness to the power of Avogadro's number.

Even better is the fact that they are giving me 4-6 weeks from today to write my proposal, rather than 4 weeks from the date of the exam - which is what I thought. So I got a ton of stuff done, very early. Now I can take a few days off to relax and celebrate! Woohoo!

Also, I submitted the vomit paper. Finally. I know it's supposed to be bad luck or something to disseminate the actual submission to the zero people that read this, but it has to be said. It took almost a year longer than originally anticipated, but it's fucking gone. For now.

I'm probably getting rejected, but I don't care anymore. I hate the vomit paper. It must die.

The Desk Months

Well, the qualifying exam is over. I think. And by that, I mean I am not too sure how I did on one section. I was essentially told to study a recipe for making bread, and all related bread-making technique and theory, then asked to come up with a cake recipe for the exam. The questions on this particular section had nothing to do with the papers I was given.

Fun.

Anyway, it's been nearly two weeks now and I still don't have my results. I was the only one taking the exam. So, yeah. These professors have never been very good at getting exams back in a timely manner, so I'm not sure why I'm so surprised. But I am! Because I am incredibly naïve!

So now I have two weeks left to do my proposal, which is a load of fun right after finishing my paper. The past few months have really been a nightmare. Paper, quals, proposal, not much bench work, gum-chewer returning to the lab to sit next to me. It's so much fun. All I want to do are experiments - but I can't. I have to write. Shit.

I can't wait until it's all done. I feel ready to leave, but that means I still have a few more years ahead of me. Of course.

Quals

I am on the eve of my qualifying exam. I've spent the last two weeks studying like a crazy person. I chained myself to a desk in the library and poured over the seventeen papers I am to know back and forward. Since I am to have "broad expertise" in these subjects, seventeen papers turned in to something over thirty once I printed out selected reviews from the reference section. If I'm being honest, it's probably the most I've prepared for in exam in the history of me taking exams.

Yesterday I had to give a seminar to my fellow students. I hadn't slept the night before because a) I hate giving seminars, and b) I was thinking about the exam. I sat in the library, bleary-eyed and nodding off, my hand clawed around various coffee delivery systems. I had so much caffeine that I nearly spazzed out during seminar, and I talked so fast that I don't think anyone understood what the hell I was talking about. No one cared, though; we all wanted to go home.

Despite all of this, and the fact that my boss is on my ass about submitting my paper, I felt a sudden calm wash over me. I went to the library again today, only this time I was only there for about thirty minutes before I started nodding off. I decided it was time to come home.

I can't possibly look at these papers anymore. I am sick of looking at them. I've decided to say no to more studying. Tomorrow I will have to sit from 9am-12pm, then 2pm-5pm, and then I get to do it all over again on Friday. No, I am not going to study any more. There is no way that I could keep all of this information straight in my head - there is just too much to know. Something is bound to fall off the bookshelf if I stack any more nugs of information in the ol' brain library.

I am done.

So this afternoon I came home and I watched Amadeus. I think I might take a nap. For I am starting to actually believe, for once, that everything is going to work out ok. This is, after all, the last exam I will ever have to take. I've spent the last five years preparing for it. If I pass, I will deserve it. If I fail, I will deserve it. But right now, I am starting to feel tired - and I will not feel the least bit guilty if all I do for the rest of today is sleep. And you know what? Even the idea of it feels pretty damn good to me.

FML

I am so overwhelmed. I had plans for my birthday this weekend, but I have to cancel them. Fuck. Work.

Work hazard: Frost bite

So, I have a question: Is EVERY lab in the world freezing as hell? I would really like to know. Seriously.

My lab is a fucking ice box. Even though our building is less than 10 years old, the facilities managers have no idea how to keep it at an appropriate temperature. Even in the middle of the summer, I'm walking around here in sweaters and I have a portable radiator on next to me. On occasion, I will pull that radiator beneath my desk and practically straddle the damn thing to keep myself anywhere near warm. One or two times, I put on my big puffy jacket at my desk and worked with my hat and knit gloves on. Awesome.

I get it - the lab should be kept cold in order to improve general sterility. But seriously, man. Why does it have to be that cold? Why?

On another completely different note, I just ate the worst banana I have ever eaten in my life. Holy shit. I fucking love bananas, but that could put me off of them for quite a long time.

Damn.

What is the opposite of the blues? Maybe this...

I've been on a golden streak for a few months. That's right - MONTHS. I am not even trying to complain here. I'm just totally astonished.

Just the other day, I was thinking about how some people have a fear of failure. This boggles my mind. It is completely alien to me. I've failed so many fucking times that it's not even funny. Over and over. Big things. Little things. Some which changed my life, and some that meant nothing.

I fail pretty much every day, but that is just the nature of the big ugly beast that is science. Do an experiment and - if it works - probably only half of it worked the way you wanted it to. I worked on a protocol for four months before, meaning that it failed every day for over three and a half. I tinkered with some one or other part until it slowly began coming around. ChIP took me a long time as well. You just never know. The staff scientist says that learning any new technique will take six months. Now I don't know about that, because she might possibly be the most pessimistic creature to have ever walked the Earth, but you get the idea.

So imagine my amazement when everything has worked this summer. Everything. I don't even know what to do with myself. My lab notebook is so far behind that it's not even funny anymore. I really can't keep up with the data. It's really the best time in the world for this, since I was toying with blowing this place up and going to work on some seal or dolphin project out on some faraway beach.

And even though I want to vomit in my mouth just talking about it... the uh, the paper... Well it's pretty much wrapped up. I'm just doing statistical repeats.

So I'm getting ready for some classes this fall. I only have to take two, and they are going to be pretty easy. After that, I'm planning on taking my qualification exams. This could be an interesting few months.

I hope the gold streak continues. More than anything.

The Neverending Paper

Oh fucking shit on a shingle. This paper is going to haunt me until the end of time. I truly and sincerely hope that they are not all like this. If so, I may very well end up becoming a carpenter or something. Because fuck this.

I am still doing control experiments. Still! No one seems to be satisfied with my explanations, let alone the data itself. I would like to remind people that data don't lie, but I keep forgetting that in their eyes I apparently don't know shit. Or something. Seriously, how many different methods will it take to prove that my new method works? Three isn't enough. And if three isn't enough, I have the sneaking suspicion that not even ten will.

I gotta say, supplemental info on journal articles really chaps my ass. And all of this dumb bullshit that I am currently enduring will just end up in some big stinking barfy pile of supplemental info that only the anal-retentive myopic fucks will read. One of my mentors, a true scientist who still comes in to the lab every day at age 80+, says this: Prove it, but don't over-prove it. This is something that has stuck with me for years, and I will remember it forever. I am all about this phrase. That is science. One well-crafted experiment should be enough. But no, in the age of supplemental info, it will never be enough.

One day, in the near future, I truly hope that this will be remedied. I will probably still be working on my paper then, to be quite honest.

I was always under the impression that grad students typically have a problem with not knowing when to end a project. Well I'm trying to end mine, but my PI and the staff scientist want to keep it going. I am NOT going to take three years to put out a paper. I won't do it. Fuck that shit. I swear I am not going to carry it over through the fall semester. So it is said here, in print, kinda-sorta. But for fuck's sake, the paper must die soon.

Turning the corner...

Well, shit. Life is pretty fucking good today.

I have been working on this dumb experiment for MONTHS now - trying to get ChIP to work. There has been lots of plotting to set my bench on fire, wanting to blow up the lab, and general crankiness during this optimization process. Today, though, I received the results from my last run and it totally fucking worked. Perfectly. Beautifully. The most perfect ChIP protocol ever.

Holy fucking shit. I am the motherfucking ChIP master. At least, I am today.

My paper came back from the boss, and there really aren't that many notes. Then she added that I was a great writer. I felt like she put a little A+ sticker on my paper and a big smiley face. It felt good.

Things have been so fucked lately in the lab. I'm not really talking to anyone anymore due to the horribleness of the last month. By that, I mean no chit-chatting - just work-related stuff and typically polite pleasantries. Amazingly, though, I've discovered that I get a fucking shitload of experiments done now. This has been one of the most prolific periods of my time in the lab, and it's wonderful.

So, with all of the sudden good fortune in the lab, I'm expecting that my paper will be submitted within the next 4-6 weeks. Fuck yeah.

Everything's coming up Millhouse.

I would like to barf all over you...

I don't know why, but I've been thinking about "barf" quite a bit. Not vomit, but "barf." There is something so juvenile about the word that I love. It makes me think of being in grade school, when life was not all complicated and full of lady lab dragons.

Come to think of it, I do know why I've been thinking about barf. I've been reluctant to admit it, because it sounds really stupid. But in my head, as I wandered about campus, through throngs of dumbass medical students, I kept thinking that I wanted to "barf with apathy."

Sure, you can't do such a thing. But it sounded good. Those people made me want to barf with apathy.

Man. This is my life. Right now.

I think I am just going to take a day off. I mean, I'm not just gonna stay home and couch all day. I am going to take a day off and go fishing or something - play some serious hooky. Maybe I just need an actively relaxing juvenile action to go with my increasingly juvenile thoughts.

Yeah, that's it.

I can feel the skies brightening already...