"You are superior to mollusks in every way but looks." -Dogbert

I realized today that I'm the dating world's equivalent to oatmeal, or gruel, or rice cakes, or something devised with the auspices of being good for you, but with such a bland taste that it's practically unpalatable. From now on, I'm going to carry around a packet of brown sugar, and when I get turned down, I'll tear open the packet, sprinkle it on myself and say, "Wait, wait, I'm more appealing now!" Sadly, though, this will do little to combat the fact that I'm still Asian and still in the Midwest, still getting shot down left and right, and still entirely hopeless for finding a date in this city or within a 50 mile radius. I think S is right. I am in desperate need of a move to a state as far away from where I am as humanly possible. I'm like a winter coat in Arizona. Somewhere, someone is in desperate need of me, but certainly not here.

I also realized that Korean food is the best food in the world. I've managed to fill my belly with Korean food with weekend, and I'm very happy about it. I miss my mom's cooking. I miss coming home to a Korean meal, with soup and everything. I miss all the weird little things that my mom did that I cannot replicate. I tried cooking something, and my mom picked me to pieces. More soy sauce. Less sugar. Stir more. Leave it covered. Add more garlic. Arg! I cannot replicate any of my mom's recipes, so my only hope for a life full of nutritious and delicious Korean food is to find some Korean girl who is in desperate need of a green card. If you are such a girl, you should consider e-mailing me. When we meet, you should come bearing soup.

Today was not a good day

I feel like shit today. I guess I wasn't feeling all that great yesterday either, but I didn't think I was this bad. I couldn't eat today. I ate an apple, a granola bar, a cup of OJ, and a handful of chips (~900 kcal). My workout was sorry. But you can only do so much after not working out for 4 weeks.

I wish I could say that there was some precipitating event, something that set me off, but I just woke up feeling shitty today. My light therapy seems to not be doing the trick anymore. And all I can think is that I've still got 3 more weeks before the winter solstice. If this really is seasonal affective disorder, then it's certainly the worst I've had yet, and I still have all of winter to go. I wish at least these bouts of depression had some sort of predictability. I wish there was some rhyme or reason to it. I wish I could make sense of it.

So I think I'm just going to call it quits early tonight. Yes, I realize that 7PM is a pretty early hour to turn in, but maybe I'll feel a little better after some sleep. Maybe I'll get hungry and wake up and eat something. I really don't want to have to start forcing myself to eat again.

A bad time in November

[Editorial note - I am wading through a lot of depressed posts, and I've opted to consolidate them all into one entry, as this is overall quite depressing to read 12/27/10]

I am normally a pretty cheerful person to be around. And I like being cheerful. I like being a person that's fun to be around. And I don't want to be depressed. I don't want to show people all the stuff that I deal with. Who wants all that baggage, and that emotional turmoil, all the stuff that I write here, and then some. I hold back when I write here. I don't talk about a lot of things that trouble me, stuff that I could never write here because I have no idea who's reading this and it's private stuff. But I don't write much about the good stuff either, and it's not like good stuff doesn't happen.

I don't think people want to hear my shit. I don't think people want to see what's underneath. I don't think that anyone wants to hear about my problems. I think people are perfectly content with the cheerful happy version of me. And so that's what they get. Because I don't know what they would do with the moody, having trouble making it through the day, hopeless version. I mean seriously, who would even want to talk to that, or even be nearby? The truth of the matter is that in this universe, there are very few people that care either way whether I'm depressed or not.

I really don't display any of my emotions. I think in the end, people honestly do prefer me cheerful. People would far prefer to hear about how I accidentally grabbed a girl's butt yesterday than about how I broke down and smoked half a pack of cigarettes yesterday, because I finally got to a point over the last couple months where I just fucking needed a cigarette.

Cigarettes are my buffer. You know in chemistry, a buffer is a compound that you can add to a solution in order to prevent radical changes in pH. It has limits, and you can surpass a buffer's ability to maintain a pH, but for the most part, it just smooths everything out. No big highs, no big lows, just even keel. That's what cigarettes are for me. Life becomes much easier to deal with when you can reassure yourself of your impending mortality

So, I bought a pack of cigarettes at this morning, and wow, do I feel about a million times better. Thank you cigarettes, for shaving another few minutes off my life expectancy. If not for my belief in God, I would've killed myself a long time ago. I thought this 'salvation' was because I had a purpose in this lifetime, that God had a plan for me, and thus did not allow me to kill myself, as I would've liked. Perhaps this logical conclusion is entirely lacking. Who ever said God is logical?

And so, sitting in church today, I did what I practically do every time I go to church. I ask God, why exactly was my life worth saving. What is it about my existence that was worth the trouble of extending?

Every fiber in my body tells me that I should be happy. I should be content. I should be at a point in my life where shit slides off. I should be happy. But I'm not. I'm just not. And it eats me up inside. It makes me wonder how bad can Hell really be. And how easy it would be to just put an end to it all. You know, I keep going to church because I'm waiting. I'm waiting for God to tell me what it is that makes my life so worth living. I'm waiting to find out what exactly is the point of my continued existence. I don't know that it's worth waiting around to find out.

And you, what's the deal, huh? Why do you always have to be so fake with me? Or is that the real you and you're fake to the rest of the world? You've got all the pieces in front of you, but you refuse to put them together. And you're right. I'm one to talk. I'm full of shit too. But you know what, at least I stared my problems in the eye. You? I don't understand how you can get up in the morning and not cut open your jugular.

You must be medicated, you're so complacent. You sit back and let the train fly off the rails, like nothing is wrong at all, but both you and I know better. We know that everything is wrong, and sometimes, it gets so bad that when anything goes right, that's good enough. But you deserve better than that.

But you'll never look to me for a helping hand or a shoulder to lean on, so y'know what, I'll let this all slide. It's like in AA. You have to admit that you have a problem before anyone can help you. So have a good life, I guess.

The most embarrassing moment of third year

I was thinking back on all the funny moments of my medical school clerkships, and the one that always sticks out is this one girl I saw on Peds. She was like 16. She had a rash on her right flank and abdomen, with itching, that had been there for a week. There was one spot that was big, and there were smaller lesions that followed skin lines. For all you medical students, say it with me: pitryiasis rosea. Anyway, she lifted up her shirt to expose her side and I got a pretty good look at the Herald spot. However, her mother, in the interest of furthering medical knowledge, was unsatisfied with this level of exposure. Perhaps she was a surgeon in a previous life, but she was determined to have complete exposure. So, she walked over and yanked her shirt up past her breast and pulled her shorts down to her pubic bone. And to the mom's credit, I visualized the entire extent and distribution of this girl's rash, from base of right breast to right inguinal region, extending along the back as well. I imagine that I probably turned some odd shade of purple, muttered something, and left.

You know what the scary thing about being a doctor is? You'll be sipping a mocha, and the guy at the table next to you, he clutches his chest and falls to the floor. Someone yells out to call 911 and asks for help, that's you. And when you're sitting on the porch and you see some guy fall off his bike and smack his head on concrete, and he needs help, that's you. And when you see a car swerve off the road and flip a few times, you gotta pull over, because that person needs you.

There's a nice feeling of anonymity before all of this med school stuff. I could watch an ambulance drive by with its lights going and think to myself how glad I was that it had nothing to do with me. I could see an accident and think, I'd better let the professionals handle this. The only problem with that attitude is that in a few months, I'll be the professional. And it'll be 3AM and I'll get a page from a nurse telling me that Mr. D in 5142-2 had a 30 second run of V Tach. And I can't walk away. That's a scary thought.

My type of girl

I've spent a lot of time lately giving thought to something a friend of mine told me. She informed me, routinely, that not only do I have a type (of girl) but that this girl I was chasing after certainly wasn't my type. This sort of set off a series of thoughts, revolving around the question: what is my type? So, it's been years since that statement, and I think that only recently am I in any way grasping what my type is. And it's sort of a sad realization, because now that I know what my type is, it sort of points out all those women that I've known and that have summarily written me off. You know, sometimes knowing what you want is more painful because you are made acutely aware of the fact that you don't have it. Whereas if you don't know what you want, you don't know what you're missing.

Anyway, that's not to say I'm depressed or all 'pity me' or whatever. I just made the observation today. At least I've had plenty of time to think about what is not my type, and that list is pretty extensive. And it's funny, because I always find myself in a funny spot where I'm sure that I should want something, but I don't. It's just not a deal to me in the least. I guess there are perks to knowing what you want. You don't waste your time on what you don't want. Or if you do, you at least have the good sense to know you're being an idiot.