Hips Don't Lie

You guessed it, I'm at work in the back room with a bunch of cells again. Many of the cells are dead. Four of them were alive when I started. I have used at least two milliliters of cell/media/virus fluid, which is pale salmon-colored when it comes out of the incubator and turns a lovely fuschia as it cools to room temperature. Two milliliters, in case you were wondering, is a lot. It's an entire cell plate. In a world where surface tension is a force to be reckoned with and drugs are mixed in concentrations that start with "nano-", two milliliters is a lot.

I am physically hungry. I brought my lunch today, which I usually don't do, because I knew I was doing experiments today and wanted to make the most of my time. I didn't bring enough, or I didn't bring the right kind of things. I studied for the general GRE while I crunched my baby carrots. I'm not mentally or emotionally hungry because I still have the gross-stomach thing going on that happens when you have a constant snot drip down the back of your throat for a week.

Last night we ran an oasis in our apartment for those friends who did not have air conditioning. We watched Reefer Madness and then hit the highlights again for late-comers. R did not come over. He was invited but opted to stay in his own ac with a pile of car magazines and a bottle of wine.

About 10:30 the text messages started pouring in. He'd gone over to some friends'. There had been pot. I can always tell when he's drunk or high because it's really, really obvious. All conversational niceties are gone, and he's all about the sex. As much sex, as dirty as possible, as immediate as can be done, preferably on someone else's furniture. And he won't take no for an answer. He won't stop asking, suggesting, making deals, offering, insisting. Even when it's one in the morning and his girlfriend has to be at work early.

It's such a change of pace from his regular persona. He's not a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but he's normally a little retiring, not pushy at all, content to cuddle and play for hours if that's all he's/I'm in the mood for. But get some chemicals into his bloodstream and he's a man on a mission, and the mission is to make someone scream.

Does this happen to anyone else? I've always said my first drink doesn't go to my head, it goes between my legs. But that's pretty much it; I just get a little loose-tongued and a tiny bit more daring.

Speaking of loose-tongued, I pulled a muscle in mine somehow. Who does that?