Four tiny little pills.

That’s bisacodyl, trade name Dulcolax. I just took them. My colonoscopy prep begins…NOW.

I’m also on a 24 hour fast, which shouldn’t be intolerable, since I’ve got padding to spare. Then this afternoon I’m supposed to guzzle down an awful lot of this stuff called NuLYTELY, which is basically just polyethylene glycol + salt, which doesn’t sound good.

I optimistically think I’ll be able to finish up my grading while doing all of this. Right? No problem? Reassure me!

Then bright and early tomorrow morning I get some good drugs, an anal probe, and a surprise. Will it be a good surprise, like a new kitchen set and an all-expenses paid vacation for two in Cabo? Or will it be a goat? It’s like “Let’s Make A Deal” in my colon!

This is a phenomenal deconstruction of the incoherence of Jordan Peterson — I do wonder if some of her sarcasm is going to sail right over the heads of the people she’s criticizing, though. This thing is full of post-modern neo-Marxist dogwhistles (oops, I just did it, too.)

Also, even though she strongly criticizes academia, I know very few people who are as entertainingly soaking in academic culture as ContraPoints. A lot of what makes her so informative is the constructive tension in her arguments.

Good morning! I know you all love to wake up to stories about exotic sexual fetishes, so here you go.

The idea is to replicate the act of being impregnated with eggs. Usually from an alien or insect. If you’ve seen the Aliens movies, you’ll get the picture. Many people find this sort of thing very arousing. The toys are simply phallic-shaped hollow tubes that can be used to insert gelatin eggs into oneself. There is a funnel-shaped hole in the bottom to receive the eggs, which are inserted one by one, forcing them up the tube and out the top.

There’s a video so you can see how it works.

OK, being injected with parasites isn’t one of my turn-ons, but hey, if that’s your thing, now you know where to go.

However, I’m concerned by the maker’s cavalier attitude towards infection.

We are not doctors, and we’re not about to comment on what is safe or unsafe to do to one’s body as it varies from person to person. I can say that I have used them many times without hurting myself, but frankly it is up to the person using it to know their own limits. For instance, if you are allergic to gelatin. If made properly, the eggs are firm, but rubbery, similar to the consistency of gummy bears. They dissolve with body heat rather quickly.

I have made gelatin plates many, many times, and while they’re nice and cushiony for embryos, they are also pure protein and a delicious medium for growing bacteria and fungi. Mmmm, carbon and nitrogen in an easily digestible form. Talk to a microbiologist — there ought to be serious concerns about the sterility of that lovely growth medium you’re stuffing up your whereevers.

We tend not to talk about this stuff: when we tell our undergraduates about graduate school, it’s all about getting to hang out with smart people all the time and doing science in a lab and constantly learning new things. We avoid talking about the grind, the fluctuating amounts of pressure, the unsupportive pricks who run some labs, and the fact that the whole enterprise is an engine for depression. You’re working on tiny, tightly focused problems in ways that no one has tried before; you’re going to fail and fail and fail, and only occasionally see a flicker of cheerful sunlight. It can be tough.

One scientist writes about the black dog of depression that haunted him throughout grad school.

The days merged into weeks; the failures continued. My supervisor called me to his office. He was unimpressed. I needed to do better, work harder, get it right. Walking back to my bench that day, a black dog walked with me. When exactly it had arrived I can’t say. I was 21. My ramshackle mental defences had been crumbling for a while. I’ll never know what tore the breach. It may have been an admonishment from a lab technician or just one more cloudy culture bottle. Whatever had splintered the final defence, depression was my new master.

It is amazing how we can maintain a facade of normality while behind it a maelstrom of disintegrating sanity roars. By Christmas, I was thinner and quieter, but still me. Time with family and fiancée kept the black dog subdued. It waited.

Instead of seeking help, I counted down the remaining days of holiday like a condemned man. Sometimes you can see deep depression coming for you, slamming doors of escape, tightening the orbits of desperation. Deciding I would kill myself was a relief. I wrongly felt that it was the only door left open. One place the black dog could not follow.

He didn’t kill himself, obviously. And he later found support from other people and clawed himself out of the pit.

But still, when I think back…I am not prone to depression, myself. This is not to say that I don’t experience stress or self-doubt, but that somehow I’m emotionally rather unperturbable (which isn’t always a good thing), and I don’t spiral into that bleakness I see in others experiencing depression. I’m lucky that way.

I can see how the circumstances of grad school can do terrible harm, though. I spent a lot of time alone, slicing away at a microtome or sitting in a dark room feeding copper grids into an electron microscope. There was one faculty member who literally hated me, who would hiss at me in the hallways and once hauled me into his office on a whim so he could tell me to get out of science, that it was his personal goal to destroy any career I might have and prevent my graduation. Less coarse-souled people than I might have been wrecked by that.

Fortunately, I was in one of the good labs — you know, the ones with a helpful advisor and a team of supportive grad students and post-docs, which also helped immensely. Still, I worried when my daughter went off to grad school. It felt a little bit like watching her leap into the maw of a wood chipper, although it’s one where some survive unscathed, others gather scars, and others get ground down to a pulp.

Not to discourage anyone, but you should be aware of this problem.

It’s that time of year: the gophers have invaded, and are tearing up our lawn. Mounds of dirt have erupted everywhere! We decided we had to do something, so we reluctantly purchased a trap. An evil, lethal, gopher-killing trap. We put it out last night, and this morning…it had sprung.

I had expected something cute and adorable — something like a large mouse or vole. Instead, when I pulled that snare out, it brought with it a grey behemoth, almost as long as my forearm, with huge curved claws and terrifying yellow incisors. Kinda like this:

AAAAIEEE! I felt bad about killing it, but the neighbors would not have been happy if we were ground zero for a lawn-wrecking plague. Now I’m a little nervous walking around in my yard, with angry vengeful monsters burrowing invisibly beneath my feet.

Classes are over! Now I get to luxuriate in luxurious laziness for a whole year.

Wait, no. I’m not quite done. There are plans.

1. I have to get back on track with the exercise program — I was derailed by the last week. So it’s off to the gym this morning.

2. I have to finalize all the grades for my evolution course, less the final exam (due Thursday), because students want to know exactly where they stand right now, even though the final could easily raise or lower it by a whole letter grade.

3. Lab audits today. As the biology safety officer, I’m supposed to wander around checking on fire extinguishers and eye washes.

4. Our chancellor has summoned members of my division to an informal meeting this evening. I guess she doesn’t want to forget the faculty exist, so I’ll stop by and oblige.

5. Hey, the job searches aren’t over — one more interview on Wednesday, and we’re waiting on administration approval for various things.

6. Oh, yeah, I’ve got to write one more final exam. Maybe I’ll put that off to tomorrow.

The grand plan is to clear all this clutter out of my life in the next week, so I can buckle down to a strict writing schedule. But I want to get on it noooooooooowwwww.

Just a hippie gypsy…that’s my grandson.