Ok, fine.

I miss him.

I hate everyone and am going to eat all the chocolate cookies ever

-->

Despite today being a holiday of atonement, repentance, and forgiveness, I have for some reason decided to make it a day of eating everything in the world ever and angrily remembering old grudges.

I’m usually able to muster some combination of forgive and forget when it comes to people who have wronged me, but it is nearly impossible for me to do this for certain men.

1.     Creepy ones 

2.     Ones who sleep with me and then disrespect me

Exhibit A: A creepy man I was forced to work with over the summer

How anyone let this man earn a medical degree is beyond me. I naively thought the numerous times he would take me out to lunch were just acts of kindness and friendship, a sort of peer-to-peer courtesy. I was wrong. He found it appropriate for a 37-year-old, paunchy, awkward, overly-handsy virgin to not only pursue his 23 and 26-year-old coworkers, but also to act childishly upset when rebuffed. Constant “Haha, you’re of drinking age, right??” and “You’re too serious. I’m sure you’re wild outside of work!” jokes didn’t help to dissuade the general aura of creepiness. I was forced to face the horrible truth when he began jealously asking, “You think he’s cute, huh?” about every male in the vicinity and refusing to speak to me (even if I addressed him first) after news of me dating a grad student circulated the lab. I wish I were exaggerating. I will close with this lovely story: when my 26-year-old female coworker was driving us to lunch, he actually put his hand on her thigh and said, “Just listen to everything I say, and you will get into med school.” Flashbacks of his advances still give me dry heaves.

Exhibit B: A summer hookup

My naiveté got the best of me yet again. Shy glances, park swing sessions, vigorous massages, and cutesy face nuzzling all mean nothing if he announces that he’s not looking for anything serious...AFTER you've already gotten naked. I should have gathered my clothing and dignity, fled, and never spoken to him again. But no. I just lay there on my stomach, as if frozen, while he gently rubbed my back and repeated this dreadful statement. Maybe I just didn’t want to believe how shitty the situation was, so soon after a previous heartbreak. It didn’t help that I let my guard down again at the words, “I’m sorry. I just can’t stop touching you.” He was getting over a breakup, and he had cried to me, even! How could I resist? I spent most of the year giving him the benefit of the doubt. He was a good man, I thought, for continuing to try and maintain a friendship. I found out recently that he had reunited with his ex, and this made me realize that his weak attempts at friendship weren’t for me at all, but just to make him feel like less of an asshole for using me to temporarily fill an empty space.      

 

      

MS 2.5 - Summer 2012

There is no such thing as the right time. I’ve come to realize this.

My friend and I had been anticipating this Friday evening for weeks. We rode the subway, talking and laughing excitedly, so happy with ourselves and each other. Our desired restaurant was quickly discovered, and we made short work of a series of delicious drinks. It was still warm and light out. We needed nothing but each other’s company. Full of alcohol and positivity, we languidly meandered about Hollywood before finally settling into our bar. I scanned the crowd, purely out of habit. A group of men with a British girl playing a bar game caught my eye, and I seated myself and my friend strategically. As we sipped our drinks, I observed them out of the corner of my eye. They were very aware of themselves, looking around at everything and everyone while being careful not to meet any returned gaze. They spoke loudly, deliberately. I gradually lost interest as the night went on. We were getting ready to leave when I decided – I still don’t know why, really – to talk to a man who had just arrived and was standing at the table next to ours. I teased him, and he responded enthusiastically. Soon, I found myself seated again and talking to him still as his friends approached. One seated himself at the table, and I found him much more visually appealing than the man I first addressed. It was dark. I could only make out a bit of him – he was tall, blonde, dressed very casually. But it was something about the way he leaned over the table towards me, face resting on and slightly obscured by his hand. Like he was afraid and at the same time trying his best to conquer it. We talked for a long time. About what, I forget. It was something I hadn’t ever done before – speaking so closely and for so long with a complete stranger. His friend left us, and we continued to talk. His group announced their desire to seek food, and he waved to them and remained with me. At last, I realized that my poor friend had been entertaining his friend for a while. It was time for us to go. He hugged me, a hug full of boyish enthusiasm and excitement.

I already know that I do not love him. I am fond of him, and I don’t mind his company. He fills an empty space for me. However, I know that this isn't love because he, by himself, is not enough. We need to be doing things. Sitting together at a table in a pretty restaurant, with other couples on dates all around us. Walking together down the street, him reaching back for my hand or ruffling my hair or pulling me closer with an arm around my waist. Sitting together in his car. Sitting close together on his couch. Cracking jokes at his roommate as though I've known him for more than a few hours. Kissing him until he finally picks me up – one of my favorite things that he does – and carries me effortlessly through the house. Lying in his bed in his sparsely furnished room, completely comfortable with each other’s bodies. He could easily be replaced. I know this. And yet, I’ve already shed tears over him and delayed my move back east for him. Why? I think it’s not because of him alone, but because he represents a lot of things for me – the languid days of summer, experiencing my hometown as an adult, taking a break from the oppressiveness of medical school, freeing myself from my very painful past relationships. When I leave him, I leave the comforts of my summer fantasy world. I will need to start studying, to see familiar faces and places full of unpleasant memories. And I will have to face it on my own.         

           

MS 1 - NY 2

I had spent all day trying to get F to invite me upstairs. He, being his usual inscrutable self, acted as though I were asking for a pound of his flesh. Several unanswered phone calls later, I briefly regained my sanity (or perhaps just my sense of shame) and decided to pointedly avoid him during the Anatomy Closing Ceremony. But this proved impossible. When J pretended to light my hair on fire with his candle, F dared to laugh. For one moment near the end, as we were all putting out our candles, he even stood near me and made small-talk, as though nothing had happened. I wanted to jump out of my skin with unease. Why was he being like this? I needed to let him leave when my back was turned. I forced myself to focus elsewhere and not turn around until the very last people trickled out of the anatomy lab.

By some bizarre twist of fate, F and I lived within 20 steps of each other. Phone calls between us usually meant that one was right outside the other’s front door. As soon as I was out of sight of the med building, I called him again. I nearly jumped when he picked up. “Hey, I’m just about to head out,” he said, sounding far away. “Well, I’m leaving for New York in two hours,” I countered, “And I wanted to say goodbye.” When I finally found myself in his room, sighing as his hands gripped me hard enough to bruise, I remember wondering whether I’d won or lost this round.

My roommate, T, and I dashed downtown, half-open duffels slung haphazardly over our shoulders and a pair of shoes clutched in each hand. A missed bus and five or so cramped hours later, we staggered out of Penn Station and into the middle of Times Square. A few more hours were spent taking advantage of a massive Sephora and waiting anxiously for our last adventurer, S, who’d arrived via a friend’s car but somehow ended up wandering around Times Square alone and quite lost. But the three of us reunited at last and piled into a taxi to surprise our friend, Dan, in the city for his birthday. Dan lived in a building with a doorman, one who eyed us three gypsies suspiciously, with our numerous overstuffed bags and heavily-eyelinered eyes. When we finally burst in, yelling SURPRISE, I wanted to add that it was really a surprise to us, too, that we had actually made it.

Birthdays are a wonderfully dangerous environment. One feels unable to refuse anything, whether out of understanding that the day only happens once a year or fear of offending the celebrated host. We were pumped full of adrenaline, coasting on the joy of escaping med school and the endless possibilities our new environment offered. The three of us took shot after shot of all manner of clear spirits. A wayward arm knocked my glass out my hand to shatter musically on the kitchen tiles. Someone asked, “Have you ever tried Four Loko?” I turned to see four cans of it, their neon garish against the ornate dining table. S vanished for a moment only to reappear with a huge cookie cake that she had somehow transported all the way from Providence. When we had fully exhausted the wonders of the apartment, we trooped downstairs, pausing to cheerfully salute the doorman, and then downstairs again into the subway.  

The unfortunate man playing “Wonderwall” and accompanying himself on a guitar in our subway car was soon drowned out by our much louder and drunker rendition. We made our way to a bar offering “10 for $20.” 2 rounds were ordered. By the time I finally regained a sense of who and where I was, I was standing before a very tall man, who was tenderly clasping one of my hands in his and asking, “I know this is useless, but I’ll try it anyway – is there a chance I’ll ever see you again?” T and I broke off from the rest and walked out into the open air. We walked aimlessly until the delicious smell of hot grease awoke our primal instincts. We followed a long line of other night creatures and somehow managed to wedge ourselves into the hopelessly crowded Pommes Frites, an internationally renowned hole-in-the-wall French fry shop. What time was it? Two Cornell 4^th years offered to share their fry sauce with us if we’d let them try ours. I forgot exactly what we talked about, but we sat with them for a while. The rest of our ragtag crew trickled in and boisterously saluted us. “They’ll never let us get near them,” one med student told the other, eyeing our sudden five male companions. They got up and left soon afterward.

“I own the whole Carlton,” said Marc. “Yeah, his family owns the whole thing,” someone chimed in. T and I were trying to think of where to spend the night. A five star hotel was awfully appealing at the moment, as we sat with bellies full of grease and alcohol. “Or you could just come back with us,” came another suggestion. “There’s lots of room back at my place.” His apartment was indeed very large, with lovely and probably very expensive views of the city below. We finished up the fries, sweeping the insides of the paper cones to catch every last crumb before discarding them on the table. T and I walked slowly down the street with the birthday crew. S had left at some point during the night to find her sister. The fog in my brain was wearing off. It had gotten very cold outside. T caught my eye and announced, “We’re going to find Mel. Her apartment isn’t far from here.” We exchanged our last pleasantries for the evening and went on our separate ways.

“I called Mel earlier asking if we could sleep over at her place, in case things didn’t work out,” T said, as we walked quickly through steadily emptying streets. I still didn’t know what time it was. Innumerable blocks later, we found the cross streets to her friend’s apartment near Chinatown. She had instructed T on finding the keys – they were hidden in a small black plastic bag next to the stairs. I picked up a stray bag and, as if by magic, they jingled inside, just as she’d promised.                                                  

MS 1 - F

-->

It was the night before the Formal. I sat next to my friend B, doodling hearts on my arm and sipping a can-concealed mixture of tequila and ginger ale. We were both listening to our classmate, F, perform a cover of a pop song for the annual med school concert. It was very difficult not to laugh. I had just spent the day telling B, with a strange mixture of emotion in my gut, that I wasn’t sure what to do about F. F and I had, in the space of a few months, developed a very singular relationship. Long story short, it had most recently resulted in me spending the night and having morning breakfast at F’s place, all before even having broken up with my boyfriend. I had been rather giddy afterward, confused by the adrenaline rush of almost-cheating and gleeful at having a man make eggs and coffee for me for the first time. After a much-needed but still-tearful breakup, I managed to pull myself together enough to honor my last pathology exam and steal secret glances and reassuring touches from F. Things were tough, but they were looking up. I managed to sit through the song (which B insisted was secretly dedicated to me), downed my can, and quickly ducked out to go home and make myself presentable for the Formal. I didn’t feel like facing F until I was both very lovely and very intoxicated. It was really the only way to go about things at that point.

The Formal was to be the first of numerous parties that had me following F around like a schoolgirl. This sudden need to be near him was unfamiliar and unnerving. I couldn’t make sense of my feelings, and was too drunk to care. I remember thinking that he looked comical and completely unattractive, and yet I couldn’t bear to let him out of my sight for too long. Thus, I unfortunately barely remember anything about the Formal, except being with F and looking for F and distracting myself with other friends for a few moments in between. My sharpest memory is of sitting down with a very drunk F, him grabbing my thigh to slur out, “I don’t care what people think anymore. I want to be with you. It doesn’t matter,” and me hurriedly pushing his hand away with distaste.

We all slowly trickled out and stood in the freezing cold, booze-addled brains struggling to process what to do next. At last, most of us managed to squeeze ourselves into taxicabs. We all got back to my house somehow and crowded into the kitchen. F hadn't left with my group. I called him. "I'm on my way," he said, sounding very calm, and his group soon tumbled in to join us. There were too many people in the kitchen. F’s neat, white dress shirt was stained by a wayward mug of spiked cider, and I innocently told him I had an extra shirt for him in my room upstairs. I had absolutely no machinations in mind, but as soon as the two of us were alone and maneuvering about in my extremely tiny room, I realized I couldn’t have planned it better if I tried. Off went the stained shirt. "You look silly wearing a t-shirt with dress pants," I declared. Those came off as well. I gave him a pair of my men's pajama pants to put on, but the finished effect was ridiculous. "There's no way I'm going down like this," he said, as I couldn't contain my laughter, and he removed the pants. When I asked how exactly he planned to return downstairs without his pants, he responded by lying down in my unmade bed. Confused again by the excitement of having him in my room - no, actually, in my bed - while everyone was still downstairs, I didn’t even pause to think before climbing in with him.              

           

MS 1 - Drinking

My best friend in the first year of med school was a stocky, Navy-bound former frat boy. I had been rather intimidated by him during most of undergrad, so I was almost relieved to realize upon first being introduced that he was probably equally intimidated by the rest of the class. He had a preconceived notion that most med students wouldn’t like “people like him.” Once I dashed this fear, we became fast friends. We shared a birthday, after all. We became inseparable, enough to inspire dating rumors. I introduced him to my other friends, including the hilariously-nicknamed “Bros” of our med class, and we all got along swimmingly.

But this isn’t the main point of this entry. I want to talk about a game that this friend of mine introduced to us, a drinking game that came to define the first year of med school. “Edward 40-hands” consisted of duct-taping a 40 oz of malt liquor to each hand, leaving the newly Frankensteined wearer unable to do pretty much anything – including using the restroom – until 80 oz of liquor had been downed. As we were puny med students rather than stout, hearty frat boys, we decided to both spare ourselves a lot of pain and incorporate some teamwork into our version of the game. We would each chose a drinking partner and split three 40’s between us. But, being med students, we also couldn’t stand not to add a bit of competitiveness to the proceedings, so it became a speed contest. About 5 pairs of us sat in the living room, chattering excitedly as a friend taped us together – one hand with its own bottle, and the other sharing a bottle with your partner's hand. Edward 40-Conjoined Twins! It is a good thing I partnered with my Navy friend, as he made short work of two of the three bottles. For the rest of the contestants, myself included, it was the probably the most we'd ever had to drink in one sitting in our lives. 

My friend and I won - no thanks to me, really. He unfortunately also ended up tearing his brand new shirt and jeans on a fence and didn't realize it until the next morning. 

I was drunk on a lot of things that night. Surrounded by adventurous new friends, I felt that this was my chance to break free from the monotony of my college life. Sure, I was still the same person, with the same fears and insecurities, but I had been handed a brand new identity and it was too irresistible not to adopt. All the glamorous scenarios I'd wanted to live out as an awkward, shy undergrad were suddenly very much within my reach. People didn't know me, and they listened to my crazy ideas. It was too intoxicating. THIS is what it means to be a med student, I thought, as the thoroughly alcohol-steeped pack of us stumbled down the street to the amusement and heckles of passers-by.  

And I had it all terribly wrong, of course. 

The night ended in me sobbing drunkenly and uncontrollably in my room, in bed with my not-yet-ex. I was dying to shake off everything to do with my past, but it was no easy feat to deny four years of myself. I wanted to go back to talking too loudly and too closely with people who didn't know me, so I could keep pretending. 

It is obvious that I was nowhere near being ready for med school.   

I did not expect

to make it through the first day of class.

the lectures this year to be so dense, somehow making them both panic-inducing and mind-numbingly boring at the same time.

the hurricane to leave my house power-less for a week. I was intrigued – even excited – at the novelty of setting up camp at the med school building. Fifteen hours later, saying that I started to have doubts about the sustainability of my plan would be an understatement.

to find myself exposing, despite the terrible anticipation of fresh pain, the bruised pieces of myself that I had safely locked away, all just because of the tiniest chance that it could be worth it.

to finally speak my heart and my mind for once, despite my crippling fear of it destroying something I wanted so much. It didn't get me what I really wanted, but I suppose I can count it as a victory for the building of my character or whatever.

to become so lost that I'd actually turn to the one person I'd been trying to run from, willfully forgetting everything he'd done.

to actually lose all desire to feel anything ever again.

No, actually.

I don't want to be friends with any of you shitrags.

burning

i am past the stage of blaming myself and have moved on to the much more productive and satisfying stage of blaming others instead.
it is an interesting feeling, an invisible flame furrowing my brow, narrowing my gaze, clenching my teeth, speeding my movements.
when i encounter something displeasing, i can feel it flare, shoot off my skin, fan around me thickly like a black cloud.
there is nothing wrong with me. no, it is just everyone else, and they all need to get the fuck out of my way.
they are slow and inept and, even worse, blind to how right i am. they can't do things the way i want them to, and their ineptitude has made them useless burdens.
i shall throw them all out to sea and watch them float away.

i think somewhere in between 12 AM and now, i felt my soul die. like a candle flame blowing out.

Epiphany

I've had terrible luck with men ever since I started medical school (honestly, perhaps I've had it ever since I first started showing interest in the opposite sex, but for the sake of this entry I'm going to cut the self-pity short).

Naturally, I started blaming myself.
I was too needy.
I was too aloof.
I was too stupid.
I was too smart.
I was always there.
I never had time for him.
I mean, I must have been doing something. There were so many things I could have done wrong. But what?

After long year of observation, both first and second-hand, I began to realize that it really had nothing to do with me at all. With the men I was choosing, there was nothing I could possibly do that would be "right" for them, short of actually morphing myself into a textbook. Or a study guide. Or a library.

Allow me to generalize, for the sake of brevity:

Women are multitaskers. We can juggle school and relationships simultaneously. We can dedicate our hearts and minds to becoming the best physicians we can be, and still have room for unconditional love and support for someone that we truly care about, outside of school. Our lovers and our careers rotate in separate spheres, sometimes coming together symbiotically, sometimes clashing. But we will always try our best to make sure they keep spinning.

Men do not see things this way. They can only focus on one thing at a time. On the one hand, this means that it is nigh impossible for most of them to even consider making time for someone else in their lives, except perhaps on the weekends, or on days when there aren't too many meetings, and there isn't a quiz or exam on the horizon, and there aren't as many lectures to catch up on as usual. On the other hand, I will give most of them credit for being smart enough to realize that a relationship is not something to be half-assed, something that can be put off for the weekends. It is a day-to-day commitment, much like a job or med school work. And for these driven, brilliant men that I tend to fall for, it simply isn't possible to commit one's heart and mind fully to school and fully to another person at the same time.

When it comes down to me vs. med school, med school will always win. I am drawn to the difficult ones. The ones whose pasts are clouded, who had made up their minds before we'd even met to mark me down as something dangerous and pointless to waste effort upon.

I will close this post and say that I've given up on any man here that I've ever found interesting, because the only thing I can count on them to do is not to make any time for me.

Summer loves

This is to help me remember what 8 hours of daylight was like.

Also, I like lists.

1. sunning near a cool body of water

2. sun-dried, sea-washed skin

3. gin and sparkling wine

4. raw vegetables

5. sleeping alone, with all the lights off, without blankets

6. bathing suits hung up to dry against white tile

7. frosty glasses on the kitchen table

8. dozing off with the fan on

9. the first cool breeze of nightfall

10. giving myself up to doing absolutely nothing

Calm before the storm.

Last year, I walked in with nothing.

I had no idea of what to expect, so how was I to properly arm myself?

I nearly drowned under piles and piles of papers and books that never could seem to properly fit in one pack, or at least stay where I could see them. I lived in a tiny shoebox of a room – its size unable to contain my belongings and my lack of motivation to keep order – in a madhouse of seven total med student occupants. I can still see myself sitting at the kitchen table (the kitchen was about 8 times the size of my room, so I favored it) in those very quiet, sad hours after midnight, eating ice cream and wondering what the hell I was doing with myself. I became so caught up in giving up pieces of myself, playing the oft-praised role of the martyred medical student, that lost sight of who I was and what I deserved from life and the people around me. I was constantly beset by storms – from the many un-done things on my To-Do lists, from the people I gave to that couldn’t give back, from books and notes I slaved over with words that just refused to stick. As luck would have it, it was also the longest, coldest winter the East Coast had ever seen. It seemed that the year was trying to ensure my surrender. Near the end, it had devolved into an outright battle for survival. I thought of nothing but finishing. I ate whatever was near. I wore whatever was conducive to sitting for extraordinarily long periods of time (yes, that is a euphemism for leggings and sweatpants). I pulled out the largest weapons I had, without even bothering first to glance at the size of the beast I had to slay. It didn’t matter how tired, malnourished, pale I became – I just had to finish.

I return after a summer, ready to start once again. This time, it won’t be a desperate, last-one-standing, no holds barred death match. I hope to be able to ditch the “battle” metaphor, actually. This time, I will just be…studying. Studying, going to class, practicing the skills I’m learning. I will be a medical student, not nervous, confused, overwhelmed, and constantly doubting my ability to become the person I’ve always dreamt of becoming. I will no longer refer to myself as a "mess." I refuse to hide behind excuses, the bare minimum, the back corner table of the classroom.

I will be present.

I miss Claire.

Today

10:25pm
hahaha i see that you "liked" the GCB

10:25pm
yes
it was one of those likes you add in desperation
because you want it so badly but you cant have it

10:25pm
COME BACK HERE
:(

10:25pm
I know.
!

10:26pm
spats has stopped serving margaritas
apparently no one orders them
that is a sign from god that you need to come back to prov

10:27pm
I just got a facebook chat message from my sister's cute friend and he was like do you think you could tell me about brown? and I was like go visit so I have an excuse to go up to campus... 20 minute tour for you... 20 hour catch-up/gcb binge for me with Ivy
What?! Obviously
who wouldnt order a margarity

10:27pm
i dont know

10:27pm
haha the y was an accident, but I knd of like it

10:27pm
satan has taken over

10:27pm
only crazy people
yeah and deamons

10:28pm
margarity!
im gonna name my first daughter that

10:28pm
oh my gosh... yes
if you dont i will
... name your first daughter that

10:29pm
hahahaha
margherita pizza also happens to be one of my fave pizzas
i should just marry a man-shaped margarita glass

10:34pm
Yeah... that is my dream man

I want to hunt again

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

- William Blake

How to make "The Best Apple Pie in the World"

Preheat your oven to 450 degs.

CRUST
Ingredients:
2 sticks frozen butter
2 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp salt
1 tsp sugar
6 - 8 tsp water

Freeze your butter for as long as you can. If you're the prepared type of cook, you'll have it frozen since last night or the morning or whatever. If you're like me, just throw the sticks in when the idea of making pie first starts sparking in your head and by the time you get your bowl, mixing spoon, flour, baking tray, and other shit together, the butter will be cold enough.

While your butter is freezing, put the sugar and salt into your flour (that I assume you've already put into your nice mixing bowl).

Take out your frozen butter and cut it into tiny cubes. I mean, cut it into slices or don't cut it at all if you want, but cutting it as tiny and cubular as possible really helps with the mixing.

Drop your butter into the flour and mix, mix, mix. Coat all the pieces in flour so they won't stick together and/or melt. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOUR BUTTER DOESN'T MELT. The separate tiny bits of butter are what make your crust flaky and delicious.

Once what's in the bowl starts looking like a crumbly mess, start adding in ice cold water a tsp at a time. It'll start to get kind of doughy. Add just enough water so that you can smush the dough into a ball. You can use your hands (I personally think hands are better at manipulating this stuff than a spoon).

Wrap up the dough ball in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge.

Now repeat all the steps for your other crust! If this next one turns out better, use it as your top crust and use your crappier one for your bottom crust.

Put both balls of dough into the fridge to chill. You're gonna be busy for a while.

INSIDES
So, you don't really have to put apples in this pie. You could put peaches, cherries, or blueberries in it. Or pumpkin. Or pudding. Or straight whipped cream. Or a bunch of chocolate candy. Or you could bake the crust by itself first and then put ice cream in it. Then put candy on it.

Anyway, the title of the post says "Apple Pie" and I'm keeping it like that for now because I haven't tried making other pies yet. But I'm pretty sure any of the above options would be great.

Here is what you'll need for APPLE pie filling.
Apples
Sugar - White and Brown
Cinnamon
Allspice
Lemon juice
Butter

Onward!

Cut your apples up thin. This helps them cook faster, because the crust cooks really really fast. throw them all in a bowl and squeeze lemon juice over them so they don't turn all nasty and brown. Next, shake a ton of cinnamon over the slices and toss them a bit so the cinnamon coating is even. After that you're gonna want to put just a bit of allspice and mix that in too. Sprinkle about two handfuls of white sugar over it last.

PUTTING IT TOGETHER

Take those two balls of dough out of the fridge. Pick up the crappier one and smush it into the bottom of your pie pan (grease the pan if you need to). This is gonna be your bottom crust. Take out your nicer crust now and use your hands/rolling pin/book/whatever to make it as flat as you can. This is gonna be your top crust. With this one you can either choose to cut it into strips and make a super fancy lattice top pie or you can just plop it down on top of your pan.

Get your bowl of apple slices and pour them in on top of the bottom crust. Now, really quickly,
you're gonna make the last very important component of the filling - the butter and brown sugar sauce. It's just what it sounds like. Melt a half stick of butter and stir as much brown sugar as you're comfortable with into it until it's a syrupy brown sauce. Drizzle this stuff over the apple slices and maybe dust a little flour over them afterward so it's not too liquidy.

Take your top crust and throw it on top any way you like - just splat or in a fancy lattice.

Whip up an egg with a bit of milk and vanilla extract to make an egg wash and brush that over your crust.

Sprinkle some sugar onto your crust, if you'd like, to top it off.

Now throw that sucker in!!

Keep an eye on it. It'll probably take about 20 - 30 minutes for the crust to turn brown.
If you decided to make a fancy lattice crust, you might have to turn down the heat to 350ish once the top crust turns brown and let it sit in the oven a bit longer so the bits of dough covered by the other bits in your lattice can have time to bake.

While it's baking, have your friend run out to get ice cream.

Once it's done, take it out, dig yourself a huge chunk of it, plop some ice cream on top, and GO TO TOWNNN.

Prioritizing

I worried about this as a senior. Would I be happy with just two science classes a semester, or could I tack on a third? Should I take such-and-such a class for a grade or not? What classes would get me an easy A? Did I want to write papers? Did I really have to take that class with the four-hour lab? Would I have time for sleep, food, and myself? I thought about all this as I cooked little meals at my little dorm kitchen. It was so much to choose from, and it confused me. I almost wished I could just be told what to do, to take some of the weight of the constant cost/benefit analysis off my shoulders.

Hahaaa.

Little did I know that, come next year, I'd be dying for just the tiniest taste of the uncertainty that comes with having choices.

Things are completely different now. Long, long gone are the days of choosing between this difficult class or that one, this easy class or that easier one. Every class and lab I take has been chosen for me, and every single one is something I would never voluntarily have taken as an undergrad. I spend five days a week in a building from 9 -5, listening to overly dense lectures or gingerly flaying strips of rubbery skin and stringy muscle from a formaldehyde-soaked cadaver. I didn't choose the hours, the classes, or the professors. I will say that I expected it. I understood that this was to be a part of it. But I didn't expect ALL of it. I don't think anyone did. When exams draw near, I have time for nothing. Being able to sit down to eat is a luxury. A hot, home-cooked meal is an extravagant impossibility.

Remember to eat, just enough to live. Toast, toast, toast. Peanut butter.
Remember to drink enough water, or else my nose will bleed. It's happened.
Remember to get coffee on the way.
Remember not to shudder when I see an unfamiliar, wan face in the mirror, each eye carrying its own little bag.

Life pushes down from all sides until there's just no room for me anymore. I must shove "me" to the side, shove it underneath a comically mammoth backpack, piles and piles of papers, mismatched pairs of shoes and socks. I will take care of it after the exam is over.

Now my problems have nothing to do with choices. I know everything I must do. What I don't know is how I'm going to get there.

Embryology

WASTE OF MY BRAIN SPACE

Things I've become thankful for that would have seemed inconsequential months ago.

1. Coffee
I've always liked coffee. It's got that unmistakeable, untameable bite that latches onto your tongue and shoots up into your brain like some crazy-ass panther. Adding cream merely throws a thin, lovely fog over that wonderful sharpness. It mixes in without covering it up. Cinnamon is the perfect sprinkling of gunpowder to top it off.

2. Hot food
Trying to satiate myself when I'm in a rush is becoming a lot more difficult than I ever thought it could be. Sandwiches, granola bars, and the like can be nourishing and filling, but I find that there's nothing satisfying about biting into cold food when I'm exhausted and starving. My dry mouth and its thickened saliva are unable to fully process the cold chunks that I've desperately bitten off, and I feel no further motivation to continue chewing.

But hot food. Oh, there is really nothing like sitting down and feeling searing heat travel agonizingly down my throat, lightly burning every nook and cranny of delicate epithelium in its path. Hot soup. Hot stir fry. Hot ramen. Hot pocket. There's no need to be picky as long as it's hot. "Heat" should have its own space on the food pyramid.

3. Free food
Imagine this scenario: You've been slaving over your lab table or some textbook or mammoth binder or just any sort of inhumanely monumental task. You realize that the odd pain that has been grinding in your stomach is hunger. You search in your bag, and, lo and behold, you've brought everything - laptop, charger, textbooks, change of clothes, sneakers, hairties, gum, makeup - except food. In such desperate times, you would be glad to eat even the stalest, coldest cereal bar to mysteriously materialize in your backpack. You stumble into the communal kitchen and open the fridge. Your bleary eyes scan other more well-prepared people's yogurt, cold noodles, and salads guiltily before focusing on a mysteriously shrouded platter marked with "PLEASE EAT." Well, you think, you didn't even have to ask. And whatever is inside is, without fail, delicious and fills you with tear-inducing relief and happiness.

4. Finishing early
Even 5 minutes can make a huge difference. I consider the happiness gained in finding an extra minute to that of finding a dollar on the street. A minute = $1. In just one minute I could read a paragraph of a book, skim a magazine or fashion blog, buy myself a treat to go, stand in the shower just a bit longer, sit in the sun.

5. Being told that I look nice.
When I feel my mind and body slowly unraveling as I continue to push myself past endurance, trying my to tie up my loose ends isn't so bad when I'm told that I appear to be doing a decent job of it. I've already decided that I'm going to do at least a bit of makeup every day, just to keep myself feeling human. This isn't saying that humans are defined by their looks and ability to superficially dress up. I'm speaking for myself.

6. Being able to put everything away and just go to bed
This requires no explanation.