We're The Litter On The Breeze

This week, strange associations made me thought of Suede.

They started on Tuesday. 

On a topic of Neuropharmacology and Addiction I will finish to teach in a couple of weeks, I asked my pupils to read a scientific paper and to elaborate some answers. 

One of the main findings of the paper was that a low dose of morphine increases the preference for this drug in food restricted rodents. Thus my pupils also had to write a few paragraphs of morphine pharmacodynamics. 

As expected, a student wrote that opiates stimulate mu, delta and kappa receptors and modify the permeability to specific ionic channels on the cell membrane, but she also wrote that they “induce indifference to pain”. 

As I found this statement pretty simple and pretty convincing, her description remained in my head as I continued reviewing some other works. 

Suddenly, I was listening “Trash” and thinking about the increasing rate of worldwide opiate addiction and concluding that the world is so painful that we need to take pills to deal with pain. 

This idea guided me to another idea. 

Almost four years ago, I heard Suede for the very first time.

 

A cousin of my wife gave us tickets for Corona Capital, in Mexico City. On that particular edition of the festival, Suede was one of the special guests.

The festival occurred in the cold Sunday night of November 20th. 

On May 4th, after a long period of hopelessness, medical ineffective treatments, unappetizing diets and zero alcohol and nicotine to deal with gastroesophageal reflux, I'd had a surgery.

I still had to take tons of pills and I had to eat tasteless food and I had to drink plain water all day long, to avoid suffocating with my own gastric acids and to mitigate nauseas, and so I still felt weak and miserable at the festival. 

We arrived to the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez around five or six in the afternoon and we listened to Peter, Bjorn & John and to Eagles of Death Metal –I guess it was their first show after the tragic show at Bataclan– and then we moved to the stage in which Suede would play. 

 

As we walked, we passed by another stage on which a band produced by John Frusciante was playing. The music was so loud and the audience was so frenetic, but the lights and the sounds made me experienced an awful reminiscence of my illness. 

On those previous miserable weeks following surgery, one day I accidentally mixed Gabapentin to deal with the mononeurophaties provoked by the excessive amount of drugs I had taken for months and Tramadol to deal with the pain provoked by the surgery. It was a dangerous combination. I felt so dizzy and nauseating and paranoid that I believed I was about to stop breathing. I just turned off my body.

Finally, as we left behind these lights and sounds, my wife and myself stepped close to the Suede's stage and we found a nice place pretty close to it. As the wind fiercely blew and I felt that I was about to threw up, the band came onto the stage and I tried to enjoy their music. 

 

As the show progressed and the frontman and the audience connected as if they were longtime lovers who were able to see each other for the first time after centuries of censorship, prohibition and loneliness, and I felt weak and nauseating and I remembered that awful experience with Gabapentin and Tramadol, I felt l was a heroin addict dealing with cold turkey. 

As I was paying attention to the lyrics of “Trash”, I also remembered how meaningless I felt in my job. Then I was on my second year of posdoc. Apparently, in general, the students of my colleagues and the colleagues of other departments and their students saw me at me as undergrad. It was annoying. 

I wanted to make a difference, but I was so weak and worried about my condition. Sometimes I even felt that I was invisible and pathetic. Sometimes I felt so sick that I abruptly had to leave my job without telling anyone how sick I was.    

Before the surgery, I was so ill and weak that I wasn't even able to perform a stereotaxic surgery from the beginning to the end, or to read a single paper for five consecutive minutes. Nobody knew and cared about my condition.

I've been listening to Suede the entire week and thinking about how miserable I was. 

I guess all these thoughts their music reminds me of, made me not to listen to their music very often. 

Nevertheless, though I have a lot more responsibilities and I feel a lot more involved in my job, sometimes I still feel I am trash. 

I Admit I Feel A Bit Deceived

I've been reading Marcel Proust, I've been thinking that he's probably one of the most quoted writers and one of the less read, I've been locked in my house for almost three weeks, I've been paranoid and I've been watching fake news on social networks, I've been reading Science comments' on COVID-19, I've been thinking about how will my wife and I buy food for us and for the cats if we don't have a damn car and if the supermarket is pretty far from home, I've been seriously worried about get in touch with real unknown people in the streets, I've been paranoid about the idea of get infected, I've been thinking people are so dirty and unaware of the real situation. 

Here, in Lerma, people have been celebrating parties.
The churches are full of people and noisy as usual.  

I've been taking French lessons, I've been thinking about Philippe, I've been thinking about Paulette, I've been thinking about my old French professors, I've been thinking why did I behave like a moron when I should have focused on my French classes, I've been thinking that I met them more than fifteen years ago, I've been thinking about Maurice, I've been thinking in the times he was my French professor, I've been thinking he liked Boris Vian,  I've been thinking I was so futile, I've been thinking why I fell so blindly in love.  

Once Maurice imparted a class under the influence –maybe he took a Valium 'cause he thought his life sucked– and he made us watch a Stanley Kubrick film in French. I wonder what happened to my French professors, where they are now, what they have done and how they are going. 

I've been thinking about you and your friends in Europe, I've been thinking that you might hate me 'cause I haven't been supportive in the experiments you've been performing in Mexico City, I've been thinking there is something about you that makes me sick, I've been thinking why I feel pity about you, I've been thinking that it is just a sad projection of myself, I've been thinking about your cats, I've been thinking about your lonely life, I've been thinking in the times that you've complained about your life on the cellphone, I've been thinking if we could befriended. 

What if we just could be honest for one single time? What if you just admit that you like women? What if you just admit that you believe that I am a moron?

I've been thinking about yesterday, I've been thinking about my last meeting via ZOOM with my colleagues, I've been thinking about the impression my colleagues might have about me right now, I've been feeling ill and miserable, I've been considering to act like a smug guy to make it clear that I've written every single damn paper in which I appear as first author, I've been thinking that I am unable to write my own stuff, I've been realizing that I can't write as much as I want, I've been thinking why do I need to be alone to write, I've been thinking why in the hell I can't finish this damn paper in which I've been working for months.    

I've been thinking in those times when I could hear Bandoliers and get drunk and get high and just fall asleep, when I had the worst nightmares of my life, when I was a stupid postgraduate student and tried so hard in my dreams to be less stupid than I was in real life.   

I've been thinking why I can't give a fuck about silly people.

Bandoliers

Like The Coldest Winter Chill

I'm pretty worried. I have a thousand things to do and I can't tell anyone. 
I feel so guilty, like if I were a lazy and irresponsible guy. 

The last couple of weeks, I've been working in home. 

The last days I went to the university, I shared space and time with four women.
Two of them are pregnant. Other is younger than me and probably she travels on a daily basis from Lerma to Mexico City and viceversa, and she's exposed to unknown viruses from unknown people. 

The other woman maybe has my age. She has told me that we knew each other when we were postgraduate students, almost ten years ago. She says someday I went to the lab where she worked and a friend of her introduced us. Honestly, I dunno remember that day.

Her husband works at a hospital and they have two kids. He was exposed to COVID-19 suspicious' patients the entire week. She was snoozing and coughing all day long and she told me that she was allergic and that she had forgotten her anti histamines. I believed her. 

Even though we avoided physical contact, some students went to the office. Some of them tried to give you the hand and some of them coughed and sneezed. 

Also, on an everyday basis I was traveling from my house to the university and back from university on public transportation. In Lerma, there are some sort of shared cabs and I took four of them each day. Passengers were pretty close to me. Some of them coughed and sneezed, like if they were harmless behaviors. It was impossible to keep distance. 

The last day I came back from university, I was OK. 

The day after, I had to go to the supermarket. We we're running out of food!

We took an Über. We did what we needed to do, as fast as we could. 

The supermarket was sort of empty. There were just a few customers walking here and there. 
I saw an elderly couple making their shopping and I suddenly imagined that my wife and myself could be those elders at some point, and I felt excited. 

Even though I have a bad feeling on that, I just can't stop thinking of one period of my life on which I can do all the stuff I love to do –writing, playing my electric guitars, reading–, just as I do now, but excluding all these horrible bureaucratic issues I sometimes have to deal with... and just giving a fuck for the entire world.  

It called my attention one thing: the section of canned food was almost empty. 

As we were about to pay our shopping, I started to have the chills. 

Later, back in home, I felt sort of ill. I had abrupt changes of temperature and I felt weak and sleepy. I felt my bones hurting, like if I just had walked for miles under a heavy rain. I was exhausted and I thought I was about to have the flu. 

On these days it's impossible to be unaware of COVID-19 symptoms' and I got worried.

Maybe I was just paranoid, but what if I was about to get sick...?, what if I would have to isolate from my wife and from the world...?, what if someone in the job had just infected me?

To things get worst, my wife is hypertensive...

I talked to my sister in law –she's a physician– and I told her how I felt and she recommended me to take some Paracetamol pills. 

I had a couple of terrible nights. 

I dreamt my colleague –the one who was coughing and snoozing in the real world– and myself had some sort of ill relationship. We were hiding from all the people who know us and trying to have a serious conversation. I sensed that she was pregnant and I was so afraid and I felt so stupid. 

As the dream progressed, the environment became darker and colder. It seemed that the Earth was getting sick, too. 

I also had hypnopompic hallucinations of my colleague and I woke up several times repeating a magic word who supposedly would end up this pandemic. 
Obviously, I was febrile. 

I had nightmares and I barely slept three or five hours per night. 

The entire weekend, I felt so weird. 

I convalesced watching some old Headbanger's Ball shows' with Alice In Chains on YouTube. It was very strange. They were premiering some videos of their 1995' eponymous album. I have heard that album several times, I like it a lot. I even own a physical exemplar of the compact disc. I bought it at El Chopo a couple of weeks ago. It's sad to realize that compact discs are in extinction pathways. 

Nevertheless, I hadn't watched their videos. Neither I had seen an interview of the band around that time. 

As I saw Layne Staley, with an heroin-addict appearance, trying to focus on the silly questions of Riky Rachtman, I realized that I never think of him as a contemporary of Kurt Cobain and Mark Lanegan –even though I'm a big fan of Tom Hansen's awesome novel, on which he describes, in a pretty rad way, how “heroin world” was in the early 90's–, but as a musician from another time and genre. 

I supposed my opinion is influenced by the fact that someone who I really dislike introduced me to Alice In Chains and that he was crazy about Mad Season. 

It was pretty strange. 

And, for a couple of seconds, as I died on my bed, I felt I was fifteen years old and that I was watching for the very first time an Alice In Chains' music video. I ended up thinking about myself back then. In resume: in 1995, my life wasn't as boring as it seemed to me. I just was a damned stupid. I didn't even know how to play “Queen of the rodeo” on guitar. All I wanted to have was enough time to read poetry, to write poems and to befriend with a crazy punk rocker girl. 

Now, as the disease spreads across the country and the authorities seem to give a fuck about the physicians, the small businessmen and the rest of the citizens, I have to deal with the fact that my colleagues might see me as an irresponsible lazy guy. 

(Really guys, believe or not: my life would be on risk if I moved from Lerma to Mexico City, on a daily basis.) 

I live in Lerma 'cause I have to teach classes almost everyday, 'cause I have academic meetings almost everyday... 'cause I have to work on a million bureaucratic issues... I don't have a car to move by my own resources and by my own risk to Mexico City. I don't even drive. I have not even had a driver's license!

Besides, I can't eat as a normal person. Moving implies many complications to me. 

A couple of years ago, I had a surgery and I can't fast for more than three hours and I cannot eat the food normal people eat. Moving is not a simple option to me, right now. 

My colleagues perform some experiments in Mexico City. They are allowed to do it before 14: 00. I spend three hours from my house to the lab. Public transport currently has some limited schedules. It's pretty complicated. 

Hate to say so. 

On this quarantine, I wake up early in the morning and I turn on the laptop and I start to work from 8:00 to almost 18:00 0r 19:00. 

Usually I have a couple of meetings via Skype, at last once per week. 

For two weeks I've been writing the discussion of a paper. Normally, I don't even have time to do it. I just, in general, dislike the data, but I must publish this paper, some way or another.

Right now, I have to write a protocol from a totally different research project... I have to make an awful tax process... I have to start writing at last one review from a totally different topic... I have to start to prepare virtual classes for the two courses... and I wish I could enjoy everything I do, but I feel so guilty. 

I really hate it. 

Heaven Beside You

Territorial Pissings

Still remember when my life was such a simple thing. I had a lot of time. I miss the way I could simply waste my time. I miss how silly I was, pretending I knew things I didn't know. 

I miss the way I could write stupid thoughts on stupid notebooks for entire nights and then go to bed at 3 or 4 am after a smoke and then immediately fall asleep and then wake up at 8 or 9 am feeling strong and lucid. I miss all of that. Sometimes I would like to smoke again. 

Nowadays, no matter if I don't drink nor smoke and no matter if I go to bed at 10 or 11 pm, I'm tired and sleepy all day long. It's so difficult to fall asleep and to not wake up at 3 or 4 am. 

On this week, some ugly things have happened. 

At this moment, my wife sleeps. She had a big impression on Wednesday and her arterial pressure is high since then. It really worries me. Her family has a history of hypertension, cancer and diabetes. Some of her aunts died due to these conditions.
Her grandparents had a million kids. I guess it explains, in part, why these diseases spread like air. 

She has told me that her grandfather used to gave her sugar piles when she was a baby. I've seen her having pressure issues. I've seen her having troubles with her sugar intake. She's addicted to candys and bread. I've told her that her grandfather is responsible for her curse. I feel pity of him. 

I didn't know him so much, but he apparently had a sad and terrible life. In fact, I'm not sure if he ever experienced happiness at all. His entire life he was a survivor. His only activities seem to be to breed, to have miserable jobs and to watch TV. 

I remember when her wife died, almost ten years ago. He started to behave like a zombie. He seemed to be unable to behave like a grown up. He said sad things all the time. No one was able to ignore him and he seemed too weak to care about it. 

It seemed that he didn't even own his own life. 

(Is there something more pathetic than that? I'm scared to be more pathetic than I know I am.)

I don't want to be such a desperate man, suffering in front of strangers and making them feel uncomfortable. I'd rather die than behave like a fragile man. I'd rather die than have such an awful life. I'm so scared to be weaker than I know I am.  

A few months after her wife died, he had a stroke. It was so horrible and sad. He started to fight against everyone. He was mad and ill and no one knew it. He died soon after. 

Before these ugly events, I had felt melancholic. Sometimes, on my way to work, I had thought on the irrelevance of my life. Sometimes I just feel so pointless and tired of my existence. No matter how much I try, my efforts seem to be powerless. The world seems to promote stupidity. It seems to be the way evolution will end with human beings. 

Who cares about research and brain function, or who cares about teaching about these issues to pupils –the things I do–, when you can sell silly products to silly people and get tons of money for them?

On this week, I've been sort of ill. I've had more negative thoughts than usual. 
There is an arrogant posdoc who represents the ugliest characteristics you could ever think about a researcher. He's a jerk off and a hypocrite and a conflictuated-frustrated man. He seems to be used to give orders and to believe he's so smart and proactive. He hasn't worked with us not even for three months, but he's asking for holidays. (Can yo believe it?)
He's abussive and lazy and he seems to be guided by one single ambition: to be recognized like a smart guy. He really pisses me off. I knew he was this way since the first time I met him. I have to deal with him almost two or three days per week. It's so annoying. He behaves like if he knew everything and he's so desperate to make it clear and also to look like the one who never makes mistakes. He always looks for the small opportunities to point out when someone else makes a mistake. He's a low quality person. Obviously, the way he performs experiments sucks. 

Also, I've had some silly fights with toxic strangers on Facebook. The situation makes me ill, too. It drives me wild. I just can't get rid of situations as easy as I would like to. All day long I'm thinking obsessively on stupid fights. It really pisses me off. I can't control myself. It's a curse. It is associated to my writing habits. I am used to think about my life, retrospectively. 

Last Friday, a friend of mine shared some news about decriminilization of recreative marijuana use. Since I obtained my PhD performing research on the physiology of the cannabinergic system on murine models –and so I am familiar to specialized information about marijuanas' biological effects and its potential to trigger neuropsychiatric disorders, for example–, it seemed too natural to me to made a comment about the risk of this decriminalization upon human health... specially on my country. We're a bunch of morons. We kill people for money. We take the eyes out of the face of a stranger just to take a place in the parking lot. We fight against people who think differently. We criminalize people by the color of their skin. We admire people by the quantity of banknotes on their wallets or the size of their automobile. 

A moron –I still haven't decided how to call him– appeared out of nowhere and he started to call me “ignorant”. I didn't want to have an argue, I didn't even think of him when I made that comment. I even didn't insinuate someone was an idiot. 

But he seemed to be so bored and frustrated and avid to look like the smartest guy on the entire solar system. Obviously, I reacted. Why should I allow him to call me an ignorant just for free? Is it normal to be violent as a primate who detects its life on danger, while employing a smart device that requires our thumbs to be controlled by our neocortex and our striatum and our spinal cord? 

The situation really pissed me off. This guy ended up insulting me in a pretty primitive way. I also insulted him, though I am not sure if he understood my offensive comments. He was just an ignorant brainwashed character, but I spent a lot of energy on the issue. 

Later, I had a meeting with my colleagues and I felt very stupid. As we spoke about some research projects and their viability to be approved by the Council of Department of Biological Health Sciences, I assumed that none of them spent time with stupid people as I just had done in the morning. 

(The guy on Facebook was so smart that he didn't see my message: health, not just money, it's important. He probably also thinks that I even haven't smoked pot.) 

A few weeks earlier, I had a fight with one of my relatives also on Facebook. It really pissed me off. I didn't want to fight, neither. He wrote a note about technology and he called it science. I read it and I just made a comment. I just said that “science” and “technology” are not synonyms. I've been working for almost fifteen years on academy. I'm a scientist. I have written scientific papers. I have spoken about scientific topics for pupils on diverse schools and on the radio, on congresses... so I guess I know why aren't they synonyms. He's a journalist and he's my relative, but he behaved like if we were a couple of strangers and the worst enemies in the history of humanity. The situation really pissed me off. It really deceived me, too. 

People love to look like an authority on all issues... even on the issues they don't know or they haven't imagined. People are so pathetic and they assume they're the smartest guys on Earth and that everyone else just learned how to write and how to read by miracle. 

A writer once said in a conference that we employ social networks like our ancestors employed knifes: not to cut meat, but to kill our enemies. Isn't it?

Sure I know I'm not a good guy, but I also know that I am not looking for fights for free. 
I'm not attracted to fight to strangers that probably just desire to leave a territorial pissing on Facebook. I guess I'll leave it. It seems that a stupid person will always come from nowhere to look for a fight. The most elemental ability of our specie seems to be to humiliate strangers on social networks. 

Whisper Secrets For Me

We spoke on the phone, two days ago. 

Though I pretended to pointed out that it was exclusively an academic call, honestly I just wanted to hear your voice. 

I wanted to tell you that I care about you, but I didn't. 
I am not sure if you would find it awkward. I understand that you don't care about it. I understand that you don't want to know a single thing about the world. 

You told me that you were carrying out a procedure for your daughter to obtain your husband's pension, and that it was so damn difficult. I didn't know what to say. I just remembered when I first met your husband and when I first saw your daughter. It was scary and I stopped thinking about it. I just can't imagine how painful is it to be you. 

I couldn't survive if I were in your situation. I wouldn't be able to handle such a situation. It would kill me, if my wife was dead. 

I would have liked to tell you that I really care about you, but, as usual, I felt somehow rejected, and, as the conversation progressed, I became nervous and I started to think which words I wanted to say to you and I became the very same idiot guy I have always been when I try to speak with you. 

It's a sickening personality complex. I suppose my interest in us to be friends makes me act like that. It reminds me of a friend I used to have when I was eighteen years old. It was a weird relationship. She was older than me and she really behaved like an older person. Her personality attracted me so wildly. I met her in one of my first classes at the university. I started to idealize her and I spoke to her after school.

She was so nice and we talked about The Beatles and about literature. She obviously had read many more authors than me. She had an interesting and funny conversation. 
She was pretty smart and she was a professional dancer. She had health issues. She was anemic and depressive. Her dad died when she was a girl. Her life was such a mistery for me.

We started to talk on the telephone. We talked and talked by entire nights. We had fun. We had a weird relationship. Eventually, we became more than friends, or so we tried. It started on the phone. On the previous days –we used to spoke twice per week–, I told her that I liked her so much, that she was so perfect and that I wanted to see her. At the time, she had another friend. He was older than us and, apparently, he was a professional dancer, too. He was a mature man. I was just a teenager. 

She was thinking about us for an entire weekend and then she called me and she told me that she also wanted to have a sentimental relationship with me. I was so damn happy. I guess I hadn't been as happy as I was then, before. Lily was all I ever wanted and I just couldn't believe that she was “more than a friend”. 

The relationship was a disaster. Each time I saw her, it was a stressful situation for me. I was so nervous, I wanted so bad to not make mistakes that I just became a stupid guy. 
It was so repetitive that she generally got mad and angst and dissapointed and exhausted. Once she even told me that she preferred to talk on the telephone rather than to see me.

I was so naive and silly. 

Then she moved to another city and I started to write letters to her.
I wrote her endlessly –I wonder what kind of nonsense things did I write her, and I suppose I would be ashamed of them– and she wrote me back. 

The last time I saw her, she thought she was pregnant and I was brokenhearted. She was in love with an Argentine artist and I was dealing with the fact that my ex-girlfriend –the longer relationship I had back then– just had married. 

(And, right now, as I remember those days and as I write this post, I feel I'm some sort of Marcel Proust copycat, writing a letter for you.) 

I still remember when we first met. 

I saw you in a small dinning room. I still remember the way you smiled. 
You seemed so shy and clever. I wanted to know you, but I was so shy to tell you. 

Each time I think about it, I wonder why didn't we meet long before. 
It would have been awesome. I am sure that, right now, everything would be different for both of us.   

Though we worked together for four years, only on the last days we shared an office –almost two years ago–, we started to have normal conversations. I really enjoyed. You seemed a human, after all. Maybe you thought I seemed a human after all, too. I sensed that you also enjoyed our brief conversations. We started to talk about nonsense issues. We started to act as normal people. Then I moved to another city. (Ironic, isn't it?) 

I wonder if someday we could just talk on the telephone as normal people.

Whisper Secrets For Me

Despite All My Rage I'm Still Just A Rat In A Cage

I'm ill. I've got the flu.
I've been sort of sick since Monday.
I hadn't slept well.
Yesterday, I came home earlier than usual.
I slept too many hours.

I'm about to get ready to travel to the city.
None of these issues is relevant. 

Last Thursday, a couple of colleagues invited me to give a talk in a Sleep Research Course.

Today, I'm going to talk about how the microbiome impacts on sleep and the development of some neurodegenerative diseasses and neuropsiquiatric disorders.

I had less than one week to prepare this talk.

Originally, I wasn't invited to this course.

The sad events of the last week, changed many things.

I'm sort of nervous.
The talk I prepared it's sort of incomplete... or I think so. 

I'm still ill.

I dreamed about my PhD advisor and his Associate Researcher.

I was in his lab, performing a stereotaxic surgery with one friend of High school.

The surgery was a disaster. I didn't have all the instrumental I needed.
The rat was suffering and my friend constantly told me that he had saved the rat from death, several times. I felt so guilty.

I hold the animal in my hands and I tried to give it comfort. It was really suffering. 

There were another guys in the lab, attending to a seminar.

As I was looking desperately for a heavy drug to give peace to the rat, the Associate Researcher walked close to us. She gave us a speech that, somehow, I had heard before, a few times. She was selling the idea that going to a Neuroscience Meeting was the best idea everyone could ever have. Deep inside, it seemed that this meeting was going to be the most boring thing in the world. She told us her speech so enthusiastically and smiling.

Also she said, in a pretty low voice, as if she didn't want us to hear it, that my advisor was going to be the star on this Neuroscience Meeting. So, in the end, it seemed that the point was that the lucky volunteers would be his slaves. 

She wore a dress with stamped flowers on a black background.
She seemed more honest than she seems in reality.
She didn't use heeled shoes –as she always does in reality– and she seemed shorter than she seems in reality. 

I was so desperately looking for ketamine.
I wanted to give a peaceful death to the rat, but I was so silly and proud of myself that I didn't want to ask her for ketamine.

Then my advisor walked beside me.
He seemed really angst. He had his stereotypical face of "Get out of my way, you useless dumb!" His gesture evoked on me some unpleasant feelings... but, somehow, they were not as intense as they used to be almost ten years ago. At the end of my postgraduate studies I really hated my life and I even developed some level of alcoholism, addiction to smoking and a couple of psychosomatic illnesses. 

These feelings left a pretty clear example on my dream. 
A rat was in agony and my advisor just didn't even know... or didn't care. 

Also, I had the impression that he was so tiny and that I could just beat him up and throw him a few miles away from me, with a pretty small effort.

My dream was an astonishing metaphor. 

Despite All My Rage, I'm Still Just A Rat In A Cage