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tearing the rag off the bush again
Direct from Boston: A Postmodern Day by Majed Fawaz PDF E-mail
Boston: A Chemist's Day

It begins between 4:30 and 4:45 am.  I start with measuring the modulus and tensile strength of my back and shoulders just to ensure the absence of a negative slope.  I follow with testing the hydrophobicity of my aging skin.  I then examine my enantiomer for the length of his beard to make sure it meets the specs of NMT 3 mm.

Once dressed, I grab my Vertex bag (spelled BHAG), enjoy the morning quietness a few seconds, and off I go in my Break My Window four wheel drive. Time: 5:15

A religious stop at the DD shop is a must since I skip lunch on odd days. As the young lady is preparing my medium milk and sugar, my eyes are evaluating the distribution of the sesame particles on top of the Judaic loaf, while my brain wishes for a portable spectrometer (you know like one of these hand held pH meters) to study, by circular dichroism, changes to the secondary and tertiary structure of casein as it marries the hot coffee. I leave at 5:30

As I drop the 4 metallic bucks in the parking slot at Sharon’s train station, I wish for an elemental composition report of these coins but never get a print out.

It’s 5:44.  Time to hop on the rolling tube.

Since I am not yet an inhabitant of Ipod city, I usually race the machine called time with reading material or writing stupid stuff.  Once in a while, I attempt to trend the human data qualitatively and quantitatively versus the week days but often times the sound wave from the QA fellow reminds me to present proof of compliance.

After pushing the snooze button multiple times, a lazy sun slowly emerges from its burrow, pushing away a grey orange comforter.

6:30 as the ribosomal train ejects all its Homo sapiens proteins, one can watch them eluting through the platform at various speeds driven by their partition coefficients between the motivationary phase and the boredom phase.  As I listen to the announcement, I keep telling myself that our current CEO deserves copyrights from Amtrack: The baritone voice comes out twice declaiming: “if you see something, say something”.  After funneling through the split valve (door designed by smart engineers), we reach various detectors: mine is the Red line.  At this hour, the structure of the compartment is loosely amorphous with very few molecules totally unfolded.

6:45: while my legs start measuring the distance from Central Square to our center of excellence, I have a nostalgic thought to my first American friend Dennis, snatched away a few years ago by leukemia.  His first words when we first met in 1997 were: “welcome to the land of paradoxes: you will find this place interesting”.  In deed, the slice of Mass Ave separating two of the most prestigious educational spots is the filthiest you can ever find in Cambridge.

7:00 am: the fun, the headaches, the excitement, the science, the fights, briefly life as it is meant to be with its peaks and valleys starts and the engine is on all day.

In spite of every effort I mentally make to keep my promise to those left near the Gillette stadium to share their dinner, I use the high RSD of the T schedule that exceeds the limit needed for a timely connection with the commuter rail as my alibi for being late.  Nevertheless, I meditate on my day during the 15 minutes walk back to Central Square following the advice of Harvard scholar Tal Ben Shahar about the secret of happiness.

On the T, the picture is different from the morning and I can’t but turn on my morphologi G3 to capture shape and size trying to fathom the biodiversity of human kind.  In the packed material I even could distinguish Bragg diffraction angles.

Two sets of 57 and 26 stairs respectively separate me from south station hall of frame: in fact most molecules dispersed have an equatorial orientation toward the schedule frame that I thought was a movie projection screen when I first saw all the eyes riveted to it.  I climb these on even days trying to help my mitochondria churning the fat of my lunch.  On odd days, I occasionally give in to the triumphal calls of my Grehlin after its victory against my Leptin.   Grabbing a sesame pretzel, the Moroccan young man offers me a drink as a testimony of solidarity between two exiled a rabs.  In good citizen, I reach to my wallet explaining that I would not want him to be in trouble, only to hear the MIT student explain the propagation of errors and uncertainties in measurement of the big Lemonade drum insisting that he would not allow his knees to bend 5 times a day in direction of the southeast if he had the slightest feeling of guilt.

As soon as the digits display either 6:10 or 6:50 pm, all passengers frenetically converge toward the cars as if entrained by a strong EOF (Electro Osmostic Flow).  As I sit there trying to decipher the Miller indices of the seats I catch the adolescent in me nostalgically going back to my twenties, and I start wondering if in spite of the conjugal hindrance, I could screen some of the photogenic co-formers, to see if I can make a co-crystal that has a high dissolution rate.  A back to reality ring from my cell interrupts my fantasy and I hear Yara (my daughter) ask me the two usual questions that her mom perfectly distilled in her ears: where are you and how many more minutes?

It is 7.10 Or 7:50 as we gather for dinner.  Are you listening, my pm supervisor says after I fail to answer the question reiterated 3 times.  My mind is still trying to

-       finish the review of Kim’s MAR on VX-765

-       find a smart way to exhort the PDMT to adopt the child named ELN

-       avoid a deadly clash with our QA colleagues

I am home honey I respond, what do you need?

My beloved spouse provides me with the sarcastic answer: We need you to be home when you are at home.


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