I need to defrag* my brain

Listening to: 'Stop This Train' by John Mayer [Continuum]

I'll start off with a disclaimer: My sincere apologies to any PhD students who have not started to even think about writing up yet, regardless of whether or not they should've done so by now. I am in this position not by choice, or due to extraordinary organisational powers...on the contrary, this post is a result of me being way behind in what I'm supposed to be doing, and frantically trying to salvage my degree. There, you have been warned.

14 pages, 2859 words. Is this adequate? Am I going to run over tremendously? Am I going to have to invent stuff to write about? I doubt the latter, considering the fact that I'm only about half way through my first experimental chapter. Well 'half way' in a quantitative manner, not so much in an orderly manner. Yes, it's all over the place. About a quarter of the results, quarter of the discussion, and all of the methodology done...at least that's where I think I stand right now. I'll probably decide tomorrow that everything I've written is bollocks and requires complete rewriting (oh god I hope I don't think that tomorrow). See if you ask me about my project (and I'll try not to explain it here, out of respect for those who are not chemists or engineers, and not least because I'm slightly possessive about my research: I am not about to get scooped), I can explain it in a way that you'll hopefully understand - structured, lucid and concise. Awesome, huh? Not really. The only reason I can do this is because I know that I know more about it than you do. You're not about to turn around and tell me that there's no meaning to my life project.

Writing a thesis, on the other hand, is completely different. I have no clue who will read my thesis, simply because it's rather interdisciplinary...so I have to assume that whoever reads it already knows everything there is to know about my project, but wants me to explain it anyway. And if I miss anything out, I'll have hell to pay in my viva. So it appears my task is to explain everything relevant to my project, and still keep it structured, lucid and (somewhat) concise. Which wouldn't be so bad, if not for the fact that I keep remembering random crap that should've been included 10 paragraphs earlier.

The sooner I get this chapter done, the sooner I can get on with experiments and the sooner I can convince my supervisor that I am worth his time. In order to get this chapter done, I need to put everything in my head down on paper (or hard drive). Sigh, if only my head weren't in such a mess.

*Not geeky enough to know what defrag is?

What am I good for?

Listening to: 'Delayed Devotion' by Duffy [Rockferry]

...absolutely nothing, it seems (with apologies to Edwin Starr).

Cambridge is the perfect place to develop a 'small fish big pond' mentality, and it seems I have mastered it in my ~6 years here. I'm such a pro that I'm not even sure I'm a fish any more...I feel more like an unwilling urchin in transparent fish clothing. Whether it's brains, looks, wealth or luck...I always find myself on the outside looking in. Don't get me wrong, on a global scale I'm not doing too bad...but in my current environment, it's a different story. I've blogged about this inadequacy before, and I'm sad to say that nothing has changed in the year that's passed. If at all, it's just got worse.

I must be a masochist. I keep putting myself in positions where I hope I will be pleasantly surprised, even though I know it's highly unlikely. And then when it turns out just the way I thought it would (or even worse), I get upset. Well duh, PR...what did you expect?! Serves you right for hoping. To all the optimists who think I shouldn't lose hope or faith or whatever the hell you wanna call it, see THIS is what happens when I try to be optimistic. It all goes tits up in my face. Still want me to have hope?

And to those of you who are about to comment on how I'm being a self-centred bitch and just feeling sorry for myself, take a look at the title of this blog: it reads "time for some 'me' time". I think that gives me the right to feel sorry for myself if the necessity arises, don't you?

I suppose I owe you a cheery end to this miserable post. Here's Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker doing their version of the inspiration for the title of this post.

I ♥ Rob Thomas (and the boys too, of course)

Listening to: 'You're So Real' by Matchbox Twenty [More Than You Think You Are]

Oh. My. God.

So, surprising as it may seem, until 19:30 yesterday, I was a gig virgin. Those of you who read my posts regularly will probably note that my music taste is rather varied, to say the least, so you would think I'd find at least one concert worth attending. Which is partly true. The Goo Goo Dolls were in Cambridge last year and I could've gone...but the tickets were 'standing' and I wasn't sure how my spine would handle the boisterous crowds, so I bailed. KT Tunstall played at the Roundhouse in November, but my life was in a total mess around that time and I didn't get around to buying a ticket...and by the time I realised she was to play in Cambridge, tickets had sold out. Another reason is that I'm quite reluctant to spend money on unessential things.

So when my friend said she had an extra ticket to see Matchbox Twenty at Wembley and asked if I'd like to join, I was in a quandary. £30 is a lot of money for me. Going to London on a Thursday night and coming back late in the night does not bode well for getting work done on Friday. Even though the doctor said my spine was A-OK, I don't think he was taking into consideration the exuberance of Matchbox Twenty fans in the 'standing' area of Wembley Arena. BUT...this was Matchbox Twenty. The same Matchbox Twenty whose three albums were sitting in my CD box. The same Matchbox Twenty whose songs (both singles and album tracks) I could recite word for word on a good day. The same Matchbox Twenty who were fronted by a most delectable Rob Thomas; lyrical maestro with possibly the sexiest voice in the Alternative scene. So I said yes. And last evening, with two friends in tow, I popped my gig cherry to the sounds of Matchbox Twenty.

And weren't they amazing. OK I should first mention Headway, the supporting act. Clearly influenced by the likes of MB20 and The Calling, but British (they're from Nottingham). And pretty good, might I add. I had listened to their stuff on last.fm and I liked what I heard...they were as good live. Which says a lot, I think. Too many bands have perfect studio albums and crappy live performances. These guys are promising.

So once they were done, the lights came on and my friends informed me that now we would have the agonising wait until the stars were ready to show. We utilised the time to weave our way through the crowd to get a better view of the stage, taking care not to get stuck behind the many 6-footers who seemed to think they were made out of glass. I mean c'mon! I'm 5'3" - it's not like I'm gonna block your view if I stand in front of you. And then of course there were the couples who obviously thought that a rock concert was the perfect setting for full-on gropage. Seriously dudes, if you're gonna spend the entire evening exchanging saliva, the least you could do is get out of the way! There should be some kind of fan-o-meter that only lets hardcore fans to the front, leaving the snoggers to their own devices. Sigh.

But yes, we managed to find suitable viewing spots before the lights dimmed. My heart started pounding as I realised that Rob Thomas was soon gonna be standing on that stage in front of me. And then they arrived. Oh. My. God. The crowd went wild - I know it sounds clichéd but it's true. We screamed. I took a million (mostly blurry) photos. We waved our hands in the air and sang along to every single song they played. For one and a half hours, I screamed my lungs out and stomped around like a crazy fool, all the time thinking "omg he's just there in front of me". Such adrenalin I have never known.

And then it ended. And I was still buzzing (heck I'm still buzzing!). We made our 3hr journey back to Cambridge, and then I cycled home and crawled into bed.

This morning, I woke up with proof that it was not a dream...dreams don't leave your voice hoarse and muscles aching! And here's more proof...one of the few non-blurry pics from last night.