brain farts

Archive for the ‘To Whom it May Concern’ Category

To 3rd Year (aka the Year that Very Nearly Killed Me):

No offense or anything, but boy am I glad I’ll never have to see you again. You sure did give my ass a whooping now, didn’t you? All those weekends spent doing root canal access openings and long nights spent with the books sure did teach me a thing or two about appreciating the small things in life, like naps. I mean, seriously, if I had a penny for all the times I thought to myself, “God, I’d kill for a nap,” I’d be off sailing into the sunset somewhere around the Mediterranean right now.

And geez, your buddies? All 16 of them? They sure didn’t make things any easier, mind you. Take the best of your pals, Microbiology and Pathology, for instance. They very nearly turned me and every last person in my dental school into raving hypochondriacs. I swear, My Girl’s Vada Sultenfuss had nothing on us. I mean, it was totally normal for us to be all ready to dig into a steaming hot bowl of kuay thiew tom yum, only to stop short and ponder about the striking similarities of the noodles to Ascaris lumbricoides, and to wonder if that’s the reason why some of us (not me, obviously) can devour a pint of ice-cream and a loaf of bread before hitting the sack, and still remain as thin as a rail. Or how about the countless times we were learning about some random disease in Patho, only to notice an obscure spot on our arm and go, “Shit, do I have dermatitis herpetiformis? Does that mean I can’t have gluten? But I can’t live without — oh wait, that’s a mosquito bite.”


But thankfully we got over it. And lived through it. And man, although you’ve taught me SO incredibly much this year — stuff that is actually starting to come together and make sense, stuff that I can actually see myself applying to real live patients in the future — I still have to say, THANK GOD I’LL NEVER HAVE TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

Au revoir, sucka!

But thankfully yours,

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To Last Term:

So when they said dental school was going to be tough, I thought it was just going to be tough. Not TOUGH-tough. Just tough. But now I know the truth. Now the shades have been lifted. La vie en rose and all that. Now, thanks to you, I have a very clear picture of what lies in store for me these next four years.


I can’t help but wonder if you were an extra in Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. God knows you’re certainly tall enough. Plus, you’ve got that whole ominous look down pat. Sometimes, if I stare at you and concentrate really hard, I can almost imagine an army of orcs fleeing in the opposite direction, intimidated and scared shitless by your nefarious aura. Or maybe that’s just me. (I have a really active imagination.)

Despite our time together, I really don’t have much else to say to you, except thanks for ruining my social life. But all is not lost, for the exams have been penciled in, the wicked towers have toppled, and now the socially repressed dental student is FREEEE! Oh yes, I’ll have you know that you will be the last thing on my mind when I sit around bumming by the beach this Thursday.

Oh, and as long as we’re being truthful — having our warm little Dr. Phil moment here — I freely admit that during our hellish four months together I might have uttered a cuss word or two (hundred) in your name.

But I’m not sorry at all, you bastard!

Unapologetically yours,

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To Next Term:

I am one week away from meeting you, but already I hate you.

Of course, a large part of this hatred has to do with the sad fact that, for the next four months, I will be having class with you SEVEN DAYS A WEEK. This means that on Saturdays I have to have my ass in class by 9 a.m. Sundays, which God deemed to be the day of rest, are even worse, because said ass has to be there by 8 a.m.

8 a.m.!

That loud flushing noise, by the way, is the sound of my social life going down the toilet. That low grumbling sound, on the other hand, is my biological clock, who, thanks to your good friend, Last Term, has yet to recover (The Clock is still VERY disgruntled as it’s still six hours behind normal BKK time and living on London time which is totally demented since I’ve never even flown over the freaking city much less set foot there), as seen here:

Tower of  Babel

I mean, seriously, will you look at that? It’s the Tower of Freaking Babel! If that is the amount of damage that Last Term can wreak, then I don’t even want to imagine what YOU have in store for me. I’ll have you know that as much as I love to read, my brain is only capable of storing so much.

I have to admit, though, that a small part of me is kind of looking forward to Saturday classes at the university clinic, where I have already placed first dibs on the kid’s play room. It looks like a very nice place to take a mid-day nap, though I figure I’m probably going to have to fight the kids for it. Maybe I can threaten them with a dental drill

Just kidding!

But I digress, because seriously, Next Term, that schedule of yours is no laughing matter. Please keep in mind that any hairy eyeballs you might stumble across in the next four months are ALL intended for you and YOU ONLY.


Spitefully yours,

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To the French Guy Sitting Across From Me at Starbucks:

Hi. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, which is why I think it was very cool of you to motion me and my brother over to your table and offer us a seat last Sunday, seeing as how all the other tables in the establishment were taken and pretty much filled, and all we could do was sort of stand around with our trays, looking like lost 4-year-olds as we impatiently waited for our (very late) cousin to show up.

So down we sat. You went about sipping your latte, chatting on the phone to your French friend about meeting up later at Baiyoke to check out the BKK skyline while I went about picking up my fork and knife, ready to dig into my chocolate croissant. All was great! All was grand! Bon appetite and all that.

Until I went and began wrestling with my croissant, that is. And the word wrestle is so very apropos here, seeing as how it took a great deal of atrophied muscle to tear apart a nice bite-sized piece, only to watch in abject horror as a huge chunk of it went flying.

Yah, flying. As in across the table and ONTO YOUR LAP.

But you were very nice about it. So, so nice. All you did was pluck it off your lap, drop it onto the table, smile, and carry on with your conversation en Francais AS IF NOTHING HAD HAPPENED AT ALL.

Someone else also acted like nothing had happened, opting instead to feign keen interest in his caramel frappacino and stare at me all confused, as though he’d never seen me before in his entire life even though we share the same last name, not to mention a lot of the same genetic DNA. Pfft.

You have no idea how grateful I am for this; how grateful I am that you didn’t laugh at the way my face was heating up like Thailand during an April heat wave, or the way I was trying to frantically brush the stray croissant crumbs aside as if by doing so could hide the fact that I’d just sent a huge chunk of croissant FLYING ACROSS THE TABLE AND ONTO YOUR LAP.

So, thanks. I know I used to moan and bitch about all things Francais in high school, but I totally take it back now. Vraiment, mon ami. J’aime la France!!!

And by the way, in the future, when it comes to Starbucks, I am seriously sticking to the java and staying away from the chocolate croissants from now on. I’ve stomached a few dry croissants in my time, but AIRBORNE ones, too?

NOT FOR ME, merci beaucoup.

Gratefully yours,
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To the Boy Standing Behind Me As We Waited in Line For Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince at Central Chidlom’s B2S:

Hi, remember me? I was the person standing in front of you and your mom at the line at Central Chidlom, aka the person you referred to oh so eloquently as “that old person.”


Now, I do realize that at the age of 10, anyone above the mighty age of 20 might come across as older. However, note I use the word older here, for while I am certainly much older than your tender 10 years, I must also note that I AM MOST CERTAINLY NOT OLD!!!!

I mean, since when is 22 old???? Huh? HUH?


Now, I also realize that, when you referred to me as such, you might have been trying to make a point to your otherwise very unenthusiastic mom, someone who apparently does not seem to appreciate the joy of reading, nor the joy of all things magical and Harry Potter-esque (and I feel for you here, I really, honestly do). That, however, does NOT give you the right — in my book, at least — to go around pointing at random people and be all, “See Mom? Even THAT OLD PERSON is buying Harry Potter. I told you OLD PEOPLE like to read Harry Potter, too.”


And by the way, I find it really sad that your mom should think that reading about magical creatures and magical worlds is nothing but a “waste of time and money.” Do keep in mind that it is only because of your mother’s obviously very negative attitude towards books and reading that I have looked deep within my heart and chosen to forgive you, despite your not-so-cool faux pas.

Unsincerely yours,

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