A Night in the Life of a Medical Student Who Procrastinated

"Haha, you asking Kok? He's the guy that called me two days before the University examination asking me for the time, venue and the order of the subjects we are being tested."

Shaki, answering before I could,
when someone asked me about a class test

This is just another short, filler post. You'll get a lot of these this month.

Right now it's past 4 am. I just completed my insane load of backed-up Self-Directed and Independent Learning Microbiology assignments. There's a visible dent on the lateral side of the middle finger on my right hand where a pen rested on for the past 5 hours. The proximal interphalangeal joint of my little finger (on the same hand) is now killing me after being scraped repeatedly over and over again across the page of my assignment notebook from carving out lines after lines of condensed factoids which I harvested from three Microbiology textbooks that are probably heavy enough to kill a small elephant with adequate trajectory.

On my desk was two empty cans of Amul's Kool Café which I favoured over the other brands (mainly because they use 'K' instead of 'C' for 'Kool'). Sitting not to too far away from them is an empty packet of Cheetos, which was my dinner and supper all-in-one because I simply couldn't find the time to get away for a bite. There's another packet of Cheetos on the floor beside my chair but I seriously doubt that I'm going to open it anytime soon. Synthetic cheese flavoured cornmeal crisps do not agree well with my stomach (or my epicurean taste buds either, for that matter). I have 261 songs on my Winamp playlist (plus a few thousand more stored up somewhere), and most of their lyrics have already been committed to my memory through a constant regimen of overexposure and chronic conditioning. Sometimes, I even leave the music playing when I sleep. I have less nightmares that way.

A little more than an hour ago about 3 am, the fluorescent tube that functions as the sole illuminant of my bedroom come study-room come media-room began to flicker rapidly. Had I been a photosensitive epileptic, I'd seize up like one of House's patient o' the week, hit my noggin on the corner of my desk, and die bleeding like a pig. Thankfully, I'm not a photosensitive epileptic - or an epileptic of any kind. Now, where was I? Oh yea, fluorescent stroboscopic discotheque WTF.

After each successive blink, the fluorescent lamp dimmed perceptibly. The room became darker and darker, and soon, I found myself sitting in total inky blackness with my pen still resting in its groove in my middle finger and my lips making the shapes of the syllables "Oh" and "Fuck" mutely - in that order. Then a minute later, the fluorescent-lamp-that-died began to flicker back to life again; an encore of its earlier light-and-soundless show, only this time, in reverse. I'm no expert when it comes to electrical stuff, but I'm quite sure fluorescent tubes aren't allowed to do that. I'll go check with their union.

A year ago, such a bizarre domestic phenomenon would no doubt kick my ultra-fertile imagination into hyperdrive. I would have panicked and started praying to the gods in all the world's major religions. I might have even leapt into bed and curled up like a... err... wuss¹ under my blanket. But just now when it happened, all I did was grope about for my cellphone for a bit of light, and wonder if I can substitute the the dead tube with the one in my anteroom so I can resume my mountain o' work.

Medical school does that to people, y'know? It kills your imagination.

Okay, my self-alloted break is now over. I'm going to start swotting for that stupid Haematology test I'm going to sit for in a few short hours. Pretty pointless post, huh? I thought so too.

Back to work,
k0k s3n w4i

¹ I'm trying hard not to use the 'P' word here.