I Wanna Fly With You

It was spring. It was Friday. An undergrad wanted to be accepted in the lab. 

A few days earlier, my advisor had asked him to prepare a seminar about anorexia nervosa. 

I was an advanced postgraduate student and I had an experiment at that precise time.

Even though the talk was so damn boring, I didn't want to be a pain in the neck for my advisor –meaning I didn't want to provoke his typical rage–, so I had to switch between the experiment and the seminar. 

Now that I think about it, I really enjoyed performing experiments. On those days, I'd been performing some experiments with the passive avoidance paradigm. The idea was more elaborated, but in brief: since in my most recent published paper of the time, we had shown that an endocannabinoid acting in the lateral hypothalamus increased REM sleep for almost 24 hours, I was evaluating if an inhibitor of the synthesis of this molecule could block avoidance learning. Then I had a couple of published papers as first author and a couple of manuscripts in preparation more. 

Though I had proposed to my advisor this experiment and another one which ended up in NeuroReport, a couple of weeks before this seminar he had yelled at me in front of the undergrads.

It had been so annoying. He'd said that I just followed his instructions and that I didn't have ideas. 

Obviously it pissed me off. 

Now that I think about it, that's why I acquired an aversion to perform experiments. 

Each time since then, I remember those days and I feel like an idiot. 

Well, that Friday I would have like to focus in the experiment, but I didn't want to piss off my advisor, so, at a moment, I had to cancelled the experiment. 

 
After an hour or so, I was really bored. 

The undergrad didn't know how to explain the brain circuitry responsible for food intake regulation. 

All I wanted to do was to get away from the lab and to get drunk. 

On those days, I was really stressed, and I drank and did some other drugs basically from Friday to Sunday, to deal with my stress problems. I used to get wasted and to return tired and unhappy to the lab on Mondays. 

Alma Delia was an invited professor at the lab. She was about ten years older than me. 

She was kind of pretty, but a conflictive woman. All the undergraduate students worked for her and she didn't recognized them. My advisor trusted her in a pretty sickening way. 

I had the impression that she was responsible for the sickening environment we suffered at the lab, when my advisor experienced his worst times. 

Four years earlier or so, when I'd arrived to the lab, I had a few hours as a half-time professor at the School of Psychology. Alma Delia immediately looked at me in a pretty hostile way. 

Maybe she thought we would become enemies. I dunno. 

Then she used to dressed up in blouses with a pronounced neckline. Her nipples were visible all the time. She even had a nickname. The older postgrads called her “Miss Nipples”. 

Her nipples were so impressive. They looked like a couple of tough craters. 

At the beginning, when we toasted for the end of the year or the end of a congress or the end of a symposium, Alma Delia got wasted. 

She became a crazy sexual woman. Sometimes undergrads had to take care of her. 

She used to loss her head and to make sexual comments that other researchers found like a proposal to get involved with her. When I saw her drunk for the first time in a party, she even told me some sort of joke about she giving me a blowjob. It was so sickening.  

As the undergraduate student tried to decipher the opposing roles of leptin and ghrelin in anorexia nervosa, my need to get stoned increased. I had a seat beside Alma Delia. I could watch her and she could watch me. 

She dressed up a tiny skirt. Her legs were terrific.

 

Sometimes, when she got over bored, she stretched her legs and then leaned her back against the back of the chair. Her breast was exposed on plain view. I just couldn't ignore her.    

She did so, several times. Her legs were terrific. They made think of a story of Bukowski and Bukowski made me desire to get wasted. I couldn't focus on anything else. I couldn't stop watching them. I believed I understood why Bukowski was mad about legs. 

At some point, she discovered I was watching her. 

She smiled to me for a few milliseconds. 

Her smile was sort of diabolic. Alma Delia made me have insane thoughts. It made me analyze if sometimes she was flirting on me. I guess we were all stressed out. As I'm about to get wasted, I put this song on my iPod and I kinda remember that I did the same on that Friday, after the boring seminar ended up and I got home. I would have love to write something about Alma Delia and Bukowski, but I just got wasted.