As you may be able to tell, I am now officially close to losing it. I'm seriously wondering why I took this studentship. I kind of knew what I was letting myself in for at the time... but why the fuck did I think I could actually do this?? Why?
Today's problem: (Sorry for being vague... but I have to avoid certain specificities here.)
I'm working on the physiology of a particular animal. I have to describe - in detail - the structure of a particular organ. I came up with a nice little technique that has allowed me to get some pretty fucking fantastic (even if I do say so myself) images of this organ using scanning electron microscopy. Now I have to label the sub-structures of this organ for my thesis. This should not be too difficult. Many different scientists have published descriptions of this organ in related species.
Drawback number one: I don't know if they had good reasons, or if their pathetic little male egos got the better of them. But there appear to be at least six different sets of terminology in current use for the same structures. Wankers! Why?! Really?? The fact that many of these are latin-based doesn't help.
Drawback number two: Few of these researchers appear to have been capable of providing images that are of any use discerning the relative positions of any of these structures. They may have known what they were attempting to say when they wrote the papers, but I thought the whole point of this was to impart their knowledge to others. Maybe I really am just that fucking stupid...
Drawback number three: I'm currently hovering between wanting to commit multiple homicide, and not giving a shit.
I just want to line up every author of every paper I've read today, rip out their eyes and pour Trizol (TM) in the sockets... trust me, this is not nice stuff. Wankers. The bloody lot of them.
I'm just tempted to make up a completely new set of terms, and see if anyone notices.
Listening to: Ministry. This is not the calming music I need.
Fuck.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Friday, September 17, 2004
they mean well...
My parents, that is. This morning, I either slept through my alarm or snoozed it to death... I was woken by the postman. A package had been sent from the area of cow-country that my parents retired to. They had sent me a package of cookies (yes, another one... did I mention the family history of diabetes) and a calendar.
Both of these items had, I suspect, orginated from a "farm shop" that my parents frequent. I'm sure some of the items they sell are indeed local produce. I have a feeling many more are manufactured on industrial estates in Essex, and just packaged to give them a nice homely feel, thus creating the illusion that they are not filled with artificial preservatives and the like. My parents call me cynical...
On to the calendar. What is it with the current, overdone trend for naked people in calendars?? It may have been a novelty when the Womens' Institute did it. And naked firemen are fine... really fine! Even my former student friend Sean got his kit off for a good cause. This calendar, however, contains pictures of naked farmers. And it may just do more to harm the British farm industry than the effects of BSE and foot & mouth combined.
Here is Exhibit A:
.
And they say that many farmers are struggling to find a wife. I can't understand why that could be...
Exhibit B:
.
It looks like this guy has given up on the woman search, and taken to pleasuring himself with milking equipment in some bizarre countryside kinky sex practice. Things have to be pretty odd before I think them kinky. There is a dairy farm by the exit of the estate on which my parents live. I'll never view it the same way again! And if I see the above pictured freak there, the speed limit'll go straight out the bloody window.
Exhibit C:
.
The fact that his father could find a wife should give hope to all. And doesn't the floppy, wrinkly cabbage just entice you to ponder what wonders lie underneath?
I know. It's personality that counts.
Exhibit D:
.
Better looking. But he's naked, and he has his hand around its throat. I think for that poor little lamb, a nice warm oven and mint sauce is going to be sweet relief.
I just wonder about the protein content of the meal...
Anyway, enough of my bitching.
Back to work :-(
Both of these items had, I suspect, orginated from a "farm shop" that my parents frequent. I'm sure some of the items they sell are indeed local produce. I have a feeling many more are manufactured on industrial estates in Essex, and just packaged to give them a nice homely feel, thus creating the illusion that they are not filled with artificial preservatives and the like. My parents call me cynical...
On to the calendar. What is it with the current, overdone trend for naked people in calendars?? It may have been a novelty when the Womens' Institute did it. And naked firemen are fine... really fine! Even my former student friend Sean got his kit off for a good cause. This calendar, however, contains pictures of naked farmers. And it may just do more to harm the British farm industry than the effects of BSE and foot & mouth combined.
Here is Exhibit A:
.
And they say that many farmers are struggling to find a wife. I can't understand why that could be...
Exhibit B:
.
It looks like this guy has given up on the woman search, and taken to pleasuring himself with milking equipment in some bizarre countryside kinky sex practice. Things have to be pretty odd before I think them kinky. There is a dairy farm by the exit of the estate on which my parents live. I'll never view it the same way again! And if I see the above pictured freak there, the speed limit'll go straight out the bloody window.
Exhibit C:
.
The fact that his father could find a wife should give hope to all. And doesn't the floppy, wrinkly cabbage just entice you to ponder what wonders lie underneath?
I know. It's personality that counts.
Exhibit D:
.
Better looking. But he's naked, and he has his hand around its throat. I think for that poor little lamb, a nice warm oven and mint sauce is going to be sweet relief.
I just wonder about the protein content of the meal...
Anyway, enough of my bitching.
Back to work :-(
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
i must have sounded stressed...
Having suffered this whole PhD-writing Hell herself, my sister is incredibly sympathetic to my needs. Anyway, her previous care package had long since run out, so I was woken up this morning by Tescos kindly delivering to me some bags of food she had ordered for me:
.
Many thanks again!
.
Many thanks again!
Monday, September 13, 2004
check it out:
The wonderful (I think) Saint Silas Intercession now have a video for All About the Money, their debut single.
If you want to see it, click here. If you want to see them live, get your arse to the Camden Barfly next Saturday. Or just sneak a look at their website.
I'd love to go... If I manage to finish another chapter by then, I might make the effort, and think of it as a reward :-)
If you want to see it, click here. If you want to see them live, get your arse to the Camden Barfly next Saturday. Or just sneak a look at their website.
I'd love to go... If I manage to finish another chapter by then, I might make the effort, and think of it as a reward :-)
Sunday, September 12, 2004
my mind is numb.
Which is officially my excuse for neglecting this poor little blog. I've been sitting here at home, desperately trying to write my bloody thesis. It is starting to take some kind of shape, but the whole process is slower than I could possibly have imagined, and is sapping any kind of soul from my already pretty empty life. Does that sound self-pitying? Well, tough!
It's got to the stage where I can't see the point calling my friends, as I have nothing to say to them that isn't contained within the previous paragraph. At night, I open my bedroom window, and watch people walking down my street. Most of them are legless, and noisily staggering their way home from the local clubs and pubs. I'm sure there were occasions way back in the past when I did the same, I just can't remember them. Even the irritating attempts at conversation that I used to get from the woman in the local newsagent now seem like a welcome distraction.
Technically, my funding runs out next week. I was hoping to have some kind of coherent draft by the end of the month. I now realise I've been living in cloud cuckoo land. A part of me wants to let out some kind of primal scream, or break something... but despite the fact that I despise my neighbours, I don't want to disturb the bastards, and I can't afford to replace anything I wreck.
And no... my thesis is no better written than the dire drivel above.
I'm Fucked. (Quite literally, with a capital F)
Sorry for the rant, btw.
It's got to the stage where I can't see the point calling my friends, as I have nothing to say to them that isn't contained within the previous paragraph. At night, I open my bedroom window, and watch people walking down my street. Most of them are legless, and noisily staggering their way home from the local clubs and pubs. I'm sure there were occasions way back in the past when I did the same, I just can't remember them. Even the irritating attempts at conversation that I used to get from the woman in the local newsagent now seem like a welcome distraction.
Technically, my funding runs out next week. I was hoping to have some kind of coherent draft by the end of the month. I now realise I've been living in cloud cuckoo land. A part of me wants to let out some kind of primal scream, or break something... but despite the fact that I despise my neighbours, I don't want to disturb the bastards, and I can't afford to replace anything I wreck.
And no... my thesis is no better written than the dire drivel above.
I'm Fucked. (Quite literally, with a capital F)
Sorry for the rant, btw.
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