The Puerile Side of Medical Students

"To Err is Human, to Arr is Pirate."

Spotted on a T-shirt

Today before the orientation lecture for our Obstetrics and Gynaecology clinical postings, I crashed on the desk for those elusive extra minutes of forty-winks before the lecturer came in. These minutes are valuable. They are what let me stay way up every night following link breadcrumbs *tasty, tasty link breadcrumbs* from one article to the next to the next to the next at the Tropes Wiki till my eyesight's all blurry and I find myself drooling like a half-wit. Be warned! If you love movies and books and computer games and anime and manga and... basically anything that requires fictitious writing, you'd end up as trope zombie like me if you click on that link. And of course, everyone knows that TV Tropes Will Ruin Your Life.

Shit, just by talking about this site got me sidetracked for an hour reading stuff from it!

And another hour just elapsed since the sentence above this was written. I swear I Am Not Making This Up!

Okay, I'll try to get back on track here. It's a funny story, really. Like I said, while I was napping a friend of mine, Jun Mun, kept tickling my ear with a... thing. I'd try to explain what it was except that it isn't really important to the narrative. All you need to know is it's long, thin and flexible and that supermarkets here in India use it to seal shopping bags in the place of cellophane tape or staples.

So yeah - have you tried sleeping when some monkey is tickling your ears with something? It drove me absolutely batshit crazy. I snapped at him the first time he did it but he's the sort of guy that takes childish disregard to whole new level. A minute later, he was back at it again. I growled. He persevered. I went all "Stop that shit, it's seriously pissing me off" on him. To no avail. And it continued till our matronly lecturer, Dr Parvati came in - leaving me completely robbed of the rest I really need in order to do stuff like write this post and read more stuff off the Tropes Wiki tonight (which I do anyway, in spite of how frankly bushed I am).

And would you believe that that clownlord kept doing that annoying shtick throughout the class?

At one point, I snatched the damned thing out of his hand while he was taking down notes and proceeded to do the same thing to him. Only, I did that much more frequently constantly without breaks. It was poetic justice. And nothing makes me any more determined to keep at something more than the pure drive for revenge.

So I kept doing it.

And doing it.

Every time Dr Parvati looked away, I got right back at it.

With glee.

Gosh, no wonder he was so persistent! It's such a great stress releaser!

Tickle tickle tickle...

At one point, he finally hit the roof of his tolerance bar and tried to snatch the plastic thingy back but alas, I was the quicker! He missed! Luckily, Dr Parvati missed the whole charade or we would both be verbally shamed and sent out of the class. These crusty old doctor types get pretty uptight about us medical students acting like 10-year-old school kids (gee, I wonder why).

Less luckily for Jun Mun however, he was caught smiling like an ass. Y'know, when you try to do something and having fail at that, you grin sheepishly to allay the embarrassment - Jun Mun was doing that. In medical school, smiling is quite fatal.

Maybe it's something about some of the lecturers here. They cannot stand being ridiculed in anyway at all and they are pathologically paranoid about any sign of mirth or merriment amongst the students. A stray laugh, a random smile or even just a sunny disposition - it would instantly strip them of all their big damn doctor dignity, exposing the insecure, squishy inside which is vigilantly fearful of even the smallest slights to their persons. A guy got brutally berated back in year one just because he was smiling at an Anatomy lecturer during class with the lecturer going "What's so funny?" over and over again in a dead serious voice while the atmosphere's tenseness increased exponentially with every syllable. It was a real life hostage situation.

To her credit, Dr Parvati is a lot more dignified than that, but it did make her lose her cool a bit. She asked Jun Mun why he was smiling and his answer was,

"I just smile a lot."

Wow, I sure was glad he didn't sell me out.

Anyhow, Dr Parvati then went on a full two minute spiel about how people don't smile for no reason, and that the face is connected to the brain yada yada, indirectly questioning Jun Mun's mental health to the class' amusement.

I was laughing till I was blue in the face and even after Dr Parvati went back to the subject matter, I couldn't stop. I had to bite my lips to wrestle down my internal cackling demon. However, no one else was finding the whole thing as funny as I did.

That's because no one else got the real punchline.

Jun Mun was apparently smiling to himself during a lecture about dead babies.



P.S. Being the nice guy I am, I just had to share with everyone the joke about Jun Mun's psychopathic smile when he was hearing about how stillborns sometimes are birthed when they are already in a relatively advance stage of decomposition, their skin black and green and peeling off in pieces. No one apparently made that connection on their own. Why is everyone's sense of humour so unsophisticated?! I still remember the times when Shaki (that guy who used to sit beside me) and I would continue to laugh long after everyone has stopped because we both simultaneously discovered another unintended layer to a joke shared in class by the lecturer. And people thought we were nuts.

P.P.S. Revenge is a dish best served awesome.

P.P.P.S. Now that I got this post out of the way, I can go back to Tropes Wiki. Yay.



Is also able to appreciate Dead Baby Comedy,
k0k s3n w4i

Have a Murder Burger

"If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die."

Lord Eddard Stark
in A Game of Thrones
by George R. R. Martin

I feel compelled to warn anyone who have started reading this post of mine that it contains a series of rather disturbing photographs which may, depending on your constitution, either render you into a traumatised gibbering idiot or leave you feeling slightly bored, or anywhere in between the two - because I'm just nice that way.

While we were out trekking through the Thar desert during our brief 3 day stay in Jaisalmer, the question of vittles was one deserving of some concern because as everybody can imagine, food wasn't exactly freely available in some restaurant right behind the next dune in the middle of acres and acres of sandy nowhere. At the start of the journey, our camel guide presented us with the options of either a plain vegan meal of chapati and dhal, or a hearty dinner of also chapati and dhal but with the accompaniment of meat, glorious meat. There was no toss between the two. Mutton won, hands down.

Okay, a few of us objected to the majority opinion and choice though. Dhivya was on a strict vegetarian throughout the trip in mourning for her grandmother, so yeah - she wanted out. Two other girls followed suit but for entirely different reasons altogether.

You see, the star of our evening meal, a skinny black young goat, would be slaughtered on the spot for that purpose. I can imagine that carrying a haunch of meat on the back of a camel through the deadly Indian desert for hours on end could scarcely be beneficial for its freshness or flavour. I can imagine that the insta-kill bit could kind of cast a grim light on one's dinner plate for those in possession of delicate sensibilities.

That's the question; can you watch an animal being butchered before your eyes and then partake in the enjoyment of its flesh?

Keston, bearing our prisoner to the slaughter.

I have never in my life watched the killing of any animal I ate but I have always wished to - though not for some sick, sadistic reason, as some of you might already have started postulating. My want was birthed from my sense of responsibility. I felt as if I owe it to myself - and to the poor animals I've been devouring remorselessly all through my life - to see this through. I wanted to feel the impact of my dietary choices and witness the consequences of my preferred lifestyle. I wanted to see just how wrong it was. I wanted to see if it was wrong at all.

I am a Buddhist and I know that in Buddhism, all life is held sacred. There is no distinction between the value of a human life and that of other creatures, no matter how lowly we may think they are. The first Buddhist precept as clearly described by the Pali Canon is one in observation of the abstinence of taking life - any life at all. Eating meat quite directly causes the death of a living thing, and is an evident breach of that precept.

This is where things get dilemmatic for me. You see, I am quite the humanist as well, and I set great store by the dictations of my conscience and rationality.

The goat was held down while its neck was slit open with a rather tiny knife. It reminded me of those terrorist hostage videos. It was kicking quite violently.

Eating other animals is adherent to the natural order of things. I believe that humans are omnivorous, and I have very good reasons to think so.

One of it is that the versatility of our diet indirectly put us at the pinnacle of evolution. The success of our species depended us not being picky. Listen closely; we won't be the dominant species of this planet today had our cave ancestors been vegans. Follow the link to an old post of mine and read up.

"Come, lemme help." I actually found this picture funny. Sorry.

Another reason why I consider it natural for us to eat meat is how our sense of taste is wired. Everyone knows the four primary taste sensations of sweet, salty sour and bitter but what a lot of people isn't aware of is the fifth taste which has been common knowledge in the scientific community for the past 100 years. It's known by the unlikely name of umami, the Japanese word which can be unwieldily described in English as "meatiness" or "savouriness". This is something I learnt in a Physiology lecture in my first year in medical school. Before then, I have never even heard of this word.

So get your facts straight. There's are FIVE basic flavours. And while I'm at it, spicy isn't a flavour, as generally opined. Try rubbing chili sauce on your skin and you can feel the spiciness there too.

Umami is the basically the taste of natural amino acids, glutamic acids and glutamates common in protein rich food such as meat, cheese, broth and stock, and it is the reason why these things taste so hearty, wholesome and satisfying. The invention of MSG, or monosodium glutamate (or Ajinomoto, for those seriously scientifically retarded) is based solely on this principle. That's why it's so addictive and popular. It made everything taste meaty.

Yes, we love the taste of meat. Our brain and tongue is hardwired to enjoy it.

The deed was done. You can see how far the blood spurted on the sand.

From a moralistic point of view, I consider the consumption of meat to be divorced from ethics. It's food, quite simply put and we're programmed to like it. I applaud the initiative and commitment of vegetarians but I don't think eating animals to be wrong either. I'm only following our nature.

The only time the question of ethics even come into this at all, I think, is the treatment and slaughter of the animals we eat. I set myself vehemently against cruel practices like eating shark-fin soup (fuck barbaric New Year traditions). I saw footages of how the fishermen strung up sharks they caught, slicing their fins off and then dumping the poor creature back into the water to drown - yes, sharks drown if they can't swim. There's no way this practice can be justified in anyway. If I hear that stupid, lame-brained argument about how sharks also kill and eat human beings one more time, I swear I'll start poking holes in people with very sharp things. More sharks are killed every year either for their fins or accidentally from being trapped in fishing nets than there are fatal accidents involving sharks attack on humans.

Shit wait, cars kill waaay more humans per year than sharks. Start eating cars, dipshits.

Decapitation.

I believe in a quick death with the animal subjected to as little pain as possible, and an efficient avoidance of wastage.

Call me unnecessarily judgmental but I consider the act of temporarily abstaining from meat just because one has to witness the slaughtering of the animal - while at other times, blissfully attacking meat like dinosaurs just because it came all cooked, garnished and unrecognisable - to have more than a shade of hypocrisy in it. What's the fucking difference? Did the beef patties that came with their Big Mac grew on burger trees? Do they think that the chicken meat from KFC was synthesised in factories?

I think people whose appetite can be affected by watching the animal being killed ought to just quit meat for good if they can't handle the consequences and responsibility of their own actions and choices.

Just a thought.

Flaying.

I sat through the entire process till the pitiful bleating of the goat stopped - which didn't take too long - and stayed till they have half-flayed the poor thing, carefully documenting each step of the process with my camera. I myself have personally helped to flay human bodies before in my first year in the dissection hall and I found that I am perfectly capable of rationalising that the cadavers I was working on were just hunks of meat (which is true, once you get down to it). That, however, was different because they were already dead to begin with.

The goat, on the other hand, was very recently alive and kicking, and kicking, and kicking...

I can tell you that after seeing myself through the ordeal, my view on meat changed subtly. I didn't develop an aversion to it, thankfully, but I believe that I became a little less ignorant. It's like I mastered my actions on a whole new level. I now know precisely what I'm doing every time I pop some animal's body part into my mouth. Some people just can't handle that.

One of our guides started us on an appetiser; unmarinated chopped liver dropped straight into the embers of our campfire. He let it roast for a bit while turning it intermittently with a stick so it would cook evenly. After that, he dipped his fingers straight into the heart of the fire and pulled the pieces of liver out one by one, dropping them into our hands and asking us to eat them. I really hated the taste of liver because of its texture but for some reason, the one I ate that evening seriously kicked ass. Maybe because since it was barbecued, it was felt firmer and did not have the liver-ness I abhor.

The mutton took a long time to stew and it was already very late by the time it was ready. I think that the camel guide guy didn't even add a single of grain of salt into it but in spite of that, it was actually quite good! The only catch was tat we have to eat it with our fingers. That wasn't a problem for me, though. I grew up in a governmental primary school and I eat as skillfully as any Indian or Malay with my hands.

So yeah, that's all. And I apologise to anyone (excepting shark-fin-eating-sadists) whom I have offended with this post. Given I'm not very sincere about it though but hey, at least I tried.



P.S. If you ever find yourself out there in the Thar and ordered mutton as well, don't go for barbecue or roast. Some of our classmates in another backpacking group had that and they unanimously decided that that sucked.

P.P.S. I know I damn city kid-lah. Don't laugh.



Enjoying what he eats,
k0k s3n w4i

The Nonexistence of Beauty

A desert sunrise. A Royal Ponciana in full bloom smothered in fiery flowers. A grey afternoon on the verge of rain. Stray bright rays of sun shining through the storm clouds. The fluffy white and blue heaven outside the window of an airplane. A cream-coloured puppy tugging earnestly at your shoelace. A cute girl strolling by who looked as if she's about to give you a smile, but didn't because she was shy.

We can call so many things "beautiful" and encapsulate them within that word which means so broadly yet speaks so concisely - and we cherish them for it. We love beauty and perfection and abhor the ugly and deformed. We love them because they are designed, made or born that way.

But in truth, we love them as if they are designed, made or born that way.

There is no such thing as physical or inherent beauty. Beauty is an abstract concept in our minds. We are not programmed to recognise beauty - only to consider that some things are nice to look at while some things are not. Does a dog find the sunset beautiful? Can a tom cat be enamoured by a comely young lady? What about advanced space aliens from some civilisation on the other side of the galaxy which dropped by to visit in the conceivable future? Would they deem anything we think to be beautiful to be attractive as well?

I told a friend I was walking with the other day about this - about how beauty does not exist and that it's all a matter of our human conceptions. Nothing is beautiful and all the things we've ever thought to be are just delusions of our minds.

"Stop telling me this," she said, covering her ears. "Don't spoil everything for me."

How fragile it is, our reality. A simple nudge at its perception is all it takes to shatter it completely.

Government Sanctioned Stoning

"Researchers have discovered that chocolate produces some of the same reactions in the brain as marijuana. The researchers also discovered other similarities between the two but can't remember what they are."

Matt Lauer

I was exploring the marketplace outside of the Jaisalmer Fort after dinnertime when I accidentally stumbled across something that immediately called disbelief to arms. Snuggled within a small niche in the looming golden fort walls was a tiny shoppe which looked as if "seedy" was the primary concept the interior decor guy was basing his entire design on. It's dark inside and the only source of light came from a half-dead orange light bulb in a corner. There wasn't a single customer inside (which was seriously strange considering their products) - only crooked chairs and tables standing forlornly about, and looked as if they are trying to huddle together for warmth. In a smaller niche beside the entrance of that dodgy establishment was the place where the proprietor prepare his stuff, and it is considerably cheerier, better lit and has a fridge (yay).

The part that made me rub my eyes and went to take a closer look was the big painted sign in front of the shop,

Any government cool enough to do this has my vote.

That's right, it was a government authorised Bhang Shop. Like far out, dude, hur hur hur hur...

Take a look at this Wikipedia article and the picture in it. It's the same bloody place, right?

Bhang, dear people, is yet another entry in the long list of words that means happiness marijuana alongside pot, herb, grass, weed, cannabis, ganja, reefer, doodie, moon juice, Abba-Zabba, man's other best friend, bong and James Bong - and many many many many others which together adds up into the hundreds. "Bhang" specifically meant the leaf and flower of a female Cannabis sativa plant and in India, it's one holy weed. It's associated with the Lord Shiva (who is one of the coolest gods ever kowtowed to by mankind, in my opinion) and his worship. One of his epithets are actually "Lord of Bhang"! And no, he's not at all like that stoner 30-year-old jobless loser who lives in you neighborhood and is known by the local kids as the Lord of Bong. Shiva is said to be the one who discovered the awesome properties of the marijuana plant in the first place. He had since shared that knowledge with masses of the world, which became a slightly better place till it was finally outlawed in most of countries in these modern, barbaric and unenlightened times.

Am I the only one who thinks that an effective supervision program of the weed trade can be a lot more beneficial than outright prohibition?

Very respectable business card.

It's a pity that I did not try any of this awesome sounding stuff they were hawking. He tried to unload some bhang cookies onto me but at 50 rupees (about RM 3.80) apiece, I simply had to pass. After all, I was on a super-saver back-packing trip and the amount of cookies I needed to scarf to get high is enough to pay for a night's bunk in a seriously respectable hotel.

But Magic Lassi - now that goes into my big scrapbook of Life's Greatest Regrets. Every single syllable of the phrase sounds like it promise me a world of bliss, stoned ecstasy and pink baby pygmy hippopotatomushrooms. Occasionally, out of nowhere in my mind I'll hear it calling out to me in a haunting, barely perceptible voice going "Come back.... come back..."

I did try this though,

Ooh, the glasses reflect light like disco balls!

This is Bhang Tea, which was basically chai with magic sprinkles - you can see a bit of them floating on the surface of the beverage.

All I got to say is that it was a total ripoff! Firstly, at 40 rupees per glass, it was ten bloody times the price of a normal cuppa in anyplace in India. Secondly, it was no different from drinking ordinary tea! There was no high, no buzz, no sense of wellbeing or any of that 'all's awesome in the world' feeling. My companion and I both find the experience a huge let down. It's like the mountainous expectation I had for the seventh and final Potter book and found that in the end, Harry didn't freaking die - and to add insult to injury, he named his kids James, Lily and Albus fucking Severus.

After we finished our tea, the creepy shop guy showed us a small packet about two or three inches across in size filled with shriveled little brown-grey stuff which were presumably dried bhang.

"300 rupees. You can smoke it in the city or in the desert," he spoke in a rather disinterested, faraway tone belying the eternal sunshine of his potted mind "Perfectly legal. The police will not catch you."

I was severely tempted to do that but it was honestly overpriced (not that I know how pricey weed really is, of course, hahaha...) and when I actually got somewhat high from a 10 rupee experimental dip into a packet black opium paste back in Jodhpur, 300 rupees came off as plain astronomical. We passed on that as well and headed right out again to look for some back alley pusher who might charge a lot less for his holy weed.

Oh, in a related story, I had a psychiatry class recently on the mental disorders of substance abuse and the lecturer explained that a study in the UK showed that there are three types of personality when it comes to drugs and other awesome stuff that you Mom and the goverment won't let you have any - the abstinent, the experimenting and the one who gets into shit and can't dig themselves out. The abstinent personality rejects outright the use of addictive substances for fear that they might be snared. The experimenting personality is open to sampling these substances but shows no interest in making a habit out of any of them. The last category is your standard druggie who would try some, want more and screw up their lives. It is interesting that the second group, the experimenting people, is considered to be the most mentally stable of the three when it comes to substance abuse. They rarely ever get addicted to anything.

That's me. I rock, as usual.



P.S. Ran a Google search. I call dibs on the coinage of the phrase "Eternal Sunshine of the Potted Mind"!



Wants a Bhang Cake for his birthday,
k0k s3n w4i

The Weekend REM Theatre

"stop takin pikchurs of those hipposhrooms n come on9 baby"

Phoebe, in the Kok Boks

The granddaddy of all non-sequiturs.

The weekend had been - how do you say - comatose? I slept half the time catching up on all the ZZZ's I've missed through the school week. You see, I won't make time by abandoning my life little pleasures to make way for responsibilities, work and other such beasts, but they still require my attention or they threaten to eat me. Unlike the sane people who makes a choice between the two, I simply take both in without compromise or quarter, and time, time, time; where must this come from then? I can't do so many things in a day without time, can I? So I do the insensible thing and siphon what I need from my bedtime till I'm left with some tattered sleep between 3 to 5 hours in length nightly. And especially in the past week, it had been more 3 than 5. This simply resulted in overlong day naps and narcoleptic meditation space-outs at the most inappropriate of times (classes, mostly). I believe in hedonism. Life is all about the pleasure of the senses right now. Why wait for heaven if you can be happy now? I don't even know if there's really a heaven somewhere in the clouds or way out there in outer space - so yeah, I think we ought to always make the best of what we already have. Reminds me of that dog and his bone and his reflection in the river story, hmm.

On Saturday or Sunday, either in the evening or afternoon, Phoebe called me while I was deep in sleep; waking me up from an absolutely ridiculous dream. I was back in my grandmother's house in Malacca and to my surprise, it had been invaded by cute baby pygmy hippopotami. They were scampering all over the place on their short stumpy legs at high speed, bumping into things and each other. In fact, they seemed more like little dogs than hippos, and they yelped and whined too. I grabbed one and held it up, and it squirmed adorably in my hands, trying to struggle free to go back to playing with the other hippopotami. It felt kind of firm but elastic - springy, I think. Hold a button mushroom in your hand and press it, and that's exactly how it felt like. At one point the hippos ceased being like puppies and divided themselves into two factions and each declared war on the other. They all wore helmets and carried rifles and the living room was completely turned into a battlefield with mini-trenches and little explosions. SO CUTE, RIGHT? There was also a crab which was inexplicably garbed in full metal armour and was crawling slowly across the battlefield like a tank. I stood amidst all this with a camera in my hand, trying to get good pictures of these awesome pygmy hippos when Phoebe called me and woke me up.

"Aw, you called at the wrong time! I was trying to take pictures of the hippopotamushrooms!" I declared as indignantly as I could with a voice was still thick with sleep.

"You're sleeping aren't you?" Phoebs giggled. "What are hippopotamushrooms?"

It took me a moment to orientate myself and tell her about these little baby pygmy hippos which felt like button mushrooms in my dream.

"Okay, baby. Go back to sleep and continue taking pictures. Bye!"

It's so good to have a girlfriend who understand my needs. How many times have I said this already? I just can't say it enough.

In another instance about a day or two before that, I dreamt that Phoebe is pregnant and her Mom confronted me about it. It's somewhat a nightmare really on more than one level. I can't recall much detail about it but I do remember that in it, Phoeb's Mom was turning my room upside down and clicking through all the folders in my computer LOOKING FOR MY PORN STASH OF ALL BLESSED THINGS. You'd think that it's way too late for that, wouldn't you?

My third dream, which I had yesterday night was a variation of my 'Girl of My Dreams' dreams. It's strange how we can describe just how perfect the 'Girls and Boys of Our Dreams' really are but when we try to look deeper past the one-dimensional descriptions we heaped upon them like Christmas baubles, we can't see anything. We have no inkling of how they look like, what they do outside the times we see them in our dreams and what their thoughts are. They aren't real people. They are cardboard cutouts of what we wish to have and can only have when we are asleep because quite simply; they can't exist. It's only when we fell in love in real life that the faceless, substance-less mannequins of our subconscious wish fulfillments meld flawlessly into our lovers, as if that's how they have always been. It's kind of like pouring something into a beautiful, empty wine glass. Maybe that's why the ones we fell in love with always seem so perfect to us. It's because we first dream of a perfect person in our lives, and later, we fit our girlfriends and boyfriends into that vacancy. We are the ones who clothe our lovers in perfection.

So for awhile now, the Girl of My Dreams looks and talks like Phoebe but at the same time, isn't entirely Phoebe. Yesterday was different. For some reason, she turned back into that faceless, substance-less one-dimensional person I always knew ever since I started dreaming of her. She's the sweet, beautiful, cute, popular, rich, intelligent, talented, amazing person I remember who, at the same time, is just an empty wine glass; a character written just to play a role. My dream this time is voyeuristic - I was either a ghost or an invisible person following her around, watching her every move, her most private moments without her knowing. Somehow, these sort of dreams never gets erotic or kinky when I dream them - absolutely no scenes of me following her into showers or standing by while she's changing. Sex don't figure that largely in my subconsciousness, I suppose. I'm always preoccupied with stuff like reading her diary as she writes, watching her cry into her pillow after a really bad day and listening to her talking to God by her bedside before she goes to sleep. It's a frustrating sort of dream really. I kept wanting to be corporeal so I can meet her but that didn't or couldn't happen. I wanted to nurture. I wanted to protect. I wanted to care.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't remember at all how she looks like again. I couldn't recall what she wrote in her diary, what nasty things happened to her that made her cry or what her prayers were. It's like what I said; all descriptions and no essence. Dreams, I suppose, is never about the things we see in them. The scenes and the sceneries, the stage and the props are what we made up to - I don't know - entertain ourselves? Or are they just random imageries that pops into existence incongruously without meaning or order because of the random neuronal firings during REM sleep?

I, for one, like to think that my dreams teaches me about more about myself - yes, even the one about cute baby pygmy hipposhrooms. They put me in situations that would not happen in reality. They challenge my judgments and test my sanity like some sort of systemic mental diagnostic. Maybe the reason I dream so frequently is that there's just so much more about myself I need to know. Or want to know.

Gosh, empiricism is hard work. I need some rest now.



Dreaming,
k0k s3n w4i