all the beautiful girls are majoring in neuroscience
My handwriting is so bad. You should be a doctor people say, as if that was the only prerequisite. Maybe it is. The rest just follows: the slicing, and the steady hands. I once read about a surgeon who had turrets, he also flew airplanes. Talk about playing to your strengths.
But sometimes my handwriting is really good for no reason. I always wanted that bubbly- even girl lettering. My friend Callie writes beautifully.
What are you thinking about? That’s the greatest question although everyone always lies. At least I am usually thinking about myself, or how to get you out of my house, “I have to go wedding dress shopping.” That’s my best line. If you knew half the stuff people thought about, you would probably want to go live in an abandoned bus in Alaska, and you wouldn’t care if it meant you had to die there. Yeah, Into the Wild is one of my favorite movies.
My best writing is always done at bus stops. I’m at one now, and the people are piling up cause the busses keep passing us by, and the passengers look at us with apologetic superiority and we feign indifference. The class system is alive and well on the morning commute, and we didn’t like the look of that bus anyway.
Also I have more to say on that whole thing about the difference between seeing art live and seeing it the other way. It’s like the difference between your hair and someone else’s hair. You see it, but it doesn’t mean anything to you, because you can’t quite comprehend what it is. What I’m saying is that I can’t comprehend live music. The mirror neurons don’t work that well. My freshman year of college I used to sit behind this girl in physics and she had this blonde hair that must have been two feet long, and I mean this stuff was gorgeous, and everyday she would spend the whole hour just running her fingers through it, and I was rapt watching this, and I could seriously almost feel hands on my scalp. It was as relaxing as anything. These are your mirror neurons doing what they are supposed to do. I tried to explain this experience in my cognition class senior year, and everyone looked at me like I was obscene, but I think the professor got it.
I have to thank Sara for teaching me how to speak in class: raise your hand; say something, don’t worry too much about it; repeat every five minutes as needed. It took me four years to raise my hand in a class, but I’m proud to say that we dominated the discussion in PSY 420. There were days that we were just out of our minds hung-over and we couldn’t keep our hands down we wanted to talk about the amygdala so bad.
Joan used exercise to recover from brain surgery, not the other way around.