"Daddy horny Michael"

Arrested Development anyone? Anyways....

Med school, how you continue to wreak havoc with my life. In an effort to preserve a semblance of normality, I enjoy studying at coffee shops. The ambient stimulation of people milling about, people who talk about relatively pleasant topics, like the weather, or how the Cleveland Browns have attained a yet more transcendent level of mediocrity, a cast of sunlight revealing the swirl of dust motes, and the waft of coffee, it all sure as hell beats the health science library. That dungeon of learning brings back memories of unintended naps, vitamin D deficiency, and the horrid smell of med student anxiety, which permeates the very walls.

But of course, I would be amiss if I failed to mention the very best part of the coffee shop studying: the hot mammas. Yes, in the asexual world of medicine, coffee shop women are a breath of beautiful, saucy, fresh air. I’ve always fancied myself something of a coffee shop Romeo (I don’t care what you think, grant me my petty delusions), gifted with the gab that these Java beauties like, and the suitably subversive political views that get them hot.

But med school, you could leave no stone unturned. As I’m starting to realize, trying to date in medical school is like trying to cheat on the most neurotic, jealous, possessive, and boring girl you’ve ever had the misfortune to sleep with. Jealous bitch that you are, you had to fuck it up for me didn’t you, Caseandra? You couldn’t let me have my little sugar on the side, could you?

How does she do it? It goes a little something like this:
Coffee shop mamma steps in, I spot her at my 6 o’clock, and she’s instantly a marked woman; I run through the mental check list: curly hair, check, mischievous eyes, check, no ring, check. She sidles over to a table by the window, just out of conversation range of my table, dammit. But oh so conveniently, my laptop battery is out of power! Yes, I need the power strip at the table next to hers. I introduce myself briefly, but don’t linger. I return to my studying, as I’m a man of serious work, of integrity, conscious of the serious responsibilities of my profession; I have to understand the role of wnta, Hox genes, and FGF in limb patterning during development, or people will die! I am not some cheap coffee shop pimp. And yet, sometime later, I can’t help but notice she’s reading one of my favorite works. After 15 minutes of scintillating conversation, however, the question comes up:

Arabica hottie: So, what do you do?

Ethnically Destined: I’m a medical student

Arabica hottie: Oh, that’s so impressive, what are you working on right now…

Ethnically Destined: Ummm, it’s really not that interesting….

Arabica hottie: No, I really want to know, let’s see it! (She leans over my shoulder to see what I’m working on)

Lo and behold, the picture on my screen is a big, hairy, diseased vagina! How about that for a conversation killer! Were I more interesting, sharper minded, I could spin it into a conversation on reproductive rights, or Georgia O’Keefe’s recognition of the striking beauty of the vagina, but no, I am no coffee shop Romeo, I am an awkward med student now. My wit abandons me, and I stammer,

Ethnically Destined: …ummmm…..goddammit, what do you want me to say. Yes, I look at vagina pictures in coffee shops, it’s what I do!

Arabica hottie:….so it was nice meeting you, maybe I’ll see you around?

So it goes. Fuck my life.

On that note, I’m note the only one who thinks so. Hipsters also think I’m lame!
http://stuffhipstershate.tumblr.com/ (look for the September 22nd post).