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Many people desire to work in lavish environments with a high pay and great benefits, but this is not my dream work job. There are thousands of UCSD students who consider themselves "Pre-med" and throw around statements such as "I want to help others" but in reality their lives point towards other goals, aims that are pointed toward helping themselves rather than others. It is against such vain goals that i am opposed to. In all truth, i could care less what my job environment looks like as long as i am fulfilling what i believe i am called to do.

The life of a trauma surgeon is a life that is drenched with anxiety and has an aftertaste of death, it is not a fluffy pink lifestyle. I do not have any intentions to practice medicine in the United States but rather feel that i will be more readily utilized in places that lack well equipped specialists. It is in such environments that i dream to work in; places such as Baardheere.

Baardheere is a city near the border of Kenya. As I entered the war-torn region the first thing that I noticed was the red dust that stains one's feet. Before entering the city, I passed through an area that was comprised of a sea of stones laid upon the dirt. These stones were smooth and as I ran my hand over them a fine powder was left on my palm. Each stone had different Arabic symbols painted on them with a flaky white paint. The stones were placed equidistant to each other; four feet across and eight feet in length. As I closed my eyes to listen to the surroundings all that I heard was the whisper of the dust as it was gently carried along the ground. A high pitched tone seemed to linger in the area, the type of tone that seems to appear when all other forms of sound vanish. But then suddenly in the corner of my eye, I seem to notice something out of the ordinary. With a quick stride I arrived at the foreign object that consisted of a half rotted stick bound to a piece of rusted sheet metal with a lead wire. As I leaned in for a closer look I took a step on the dirt in front of the object and the ground seemed to be softer than the the surrounding earth. It is then that i realized the identity of the object; a shovel.

As i entered the city i exchanged glances with a small elderly woman. Her head was facing the ground but her eyes were fixated on me. Placed across the length of her forehead was thick leather strap that connected to a large bundle of sticks that rested on her back. I noticed that her hands were full of scars and her knuckles were calloused over with a thick layer of skin. I continued down the dirt road and beneath my feet i felt small pebbles. But these pebbles were peculiar, as if they had a symmetrical cylindrical shape to them. I leaned down and dug my fingers into the red stained dust only to pull up a small cylinder, a copper cylinder, that was closed off on one side. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of such cylinders scattered throughout the neighborhood. To complement the cylinders, there was an equal amount of small holes riddled through the buildings of the neighborhood that i was passing through.

As i reached my destination, a tall Somali met me at the door and stretched out is hands, palms up. "Welcome doctor" he said, grinning.

30 something, 100,000 miles.

The gentle hum of the Cessna's twin prop engines always brought me comfort. Something about the motion of its moving parts, orbital resonance, produces a steady rhyme and vibration that contrasts the turbulent nature of our lives.
I was never quite satisfied. Years of quiet contemplation and study created a restlessness in my spirit that I could not quell for a long time.
Delivering and administering aid to remote, underdeveloped regions of the world was an interesting job. Most of the people who want to do it are not qualified, and those who are qualified have better paying jobs, homes and families. Do not label me a martyr, please. Happiness comes from profundity and meaning, not money. There is plenty of time to be a tool, a slave for the man when I'm an old, jaded coot. At least when I die, I'll have the luxury of knowing I helped people live.
Small bush planes like the Cessna fascinated me. The cold aluminum can did little to mask the constant ripping noise emanating at every protrusion on the fuselage, from wing to rivet. Unyielding seats, aging design, and a generally high level of discomfort made the place seem unworthy of the millions in medicine, expertise and equipment that lined its hull. A keen observer would not be too quick to judgment. The old design is proved reliable and the beautiful sound produced by its engines could only be produced by the most well maintained engines.
I do what I do for the people. I believe every human only has one life to live, and to discard or dis-value a human life is the greatest travesty. The great part about working with "the poor" is they understand my evaluation. "Civilized" rich people attempt to hide their baseness and elevate themselves to positions they believe are great. They never escape their demons. In poor people their baseness and flaws are honest and simple. Hunger makes thieves, aristocracy makes genocidal dictators.
Here I am, in the lonely airspace at the interface between the rich and the poor. I am a release valve, used by privileged people to release the burdens on their souls. Filthy rich people sometimes like to help those with nothing, to remind us they were once human and still have something human in them. I am just part of their machine. I sometimes wonder about the people who fund the people who sign my checks. Scruples are rare in business, perhaps I am a way for people to buy them back.

My Pet

Most people have cats or dogs for pets. I even know somebody who has a llama for a pet, but none of them compares to my pet. Because you see, my pet is one-of-a-kind special. She is so special that she gets the garage all to herself.

During the first night, sharp pops and flashes of lightning permeate through the cardboard walls that makes up the shack of a garage. Accompanying each crescendo of lighting is a top hat rest where only the eerily silence that begs for sound exists. Billows of smoke lazily drifts through the cracked window that is not opened even a crack. Occasional chimes ring out from the shack followed promptly by curses of pain. This is where my pet exists.
During the next night, there are no more pops or lightning. The glow of the shack now dims in tune with chattering of metal and whirling of carbite. Opened boxes and packaging sprawl around the room, their contents carefully transplanted and then secured. More then one of these boxes laid on its side unable to right itself from the effects of gravity causing peanuts to layer the floor in a colorful carpet of corn starch. Being that these peanuts are lighter then air, steps to a waltz can be traced through the depressions and negative space that stroked the floor. The tempo of this waltz slowed as the moon gains height. But as the waltz comes to a finish, so does the garden of peanuts; trampled beyond recognition. This is where my pet lies.
During the final night, the lights do not dim. They do not flicker. There is no smoke hanging around the building or the chattering of metal. There is silence until lights start blinking. At first, there is the sole red led shedding its harsh shadow, but this is soon joined by an orchestra of greens and fellow reds, each blinking to their own beat. Motors whined and pistons creaked as they breathed their first breath of life. Gears grinded as they broke the static friction that ensnared their motion. This is where my pet lives.

More than just a day in the office

As a structural engineer, one of the perks of this engineering vocation is that I won’t have to have my buttocks in a chair for dreadfully long hours at a time. Instead, like sea billows that constantly wash onto shore, I will be constantly going back and forth from my design office and the work site of a newly developing building.  In my design office, I will have my own designated L-shaped cubicle. The cubicle would be a dull grey color, made mostly of the same fabric that old grandmothers were, in which the cotton has so much static, like that of someone’s hair when they touch an electric ball (think Einstein). The boring grey color of the cubicle would be the same be reminiscent of the old grey cardigan sweaters that old grandpas where. The height of the cubicle would be five feet tall, right around my eye level. The cubicle itself would be stationary on circular pegs at the ends of each Herman Miller panel. The cubicle desk space would be made up of three parts, two rectangular work surfaces and the middle section would be stationed onto the corner of the cubicle with a concaved semi-circle towards me. The two rectangular desk panels would be on each side of this middle section. A black, metal sliding keyboard tray would be attached to this middle desk panel. The color of the desk panels would be a whitish grey color. The floor would be made carpet consisting of multi-colored dots of different shades of violet, purple, ocean blue, forest green, orange, yellow, and many other colors in the color spectrum. The floor pattern would be reminiscent of George Seurat’s painting style of Pointillism. Although the overall color of the floor would be a grayish, purple color, the multi-colored juxtapose dots of the painting of A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte would come to mind. The lighting inside the cubicle would be filled with the bright white ceiling lights that permeate onto every corner of the office space. Only the area underneath the desk panels would black. The black office chair would have an elastic, thin, spider-web resembling back. The back of the chair would be convex so that I would be forced to sit upright, instead of gradually slouching onto the chair. Then there’s the most important piece of equipment in the entire office, my computer. My thin, black 24 inch monitor would sit in the center of my cubicle. Similar to how many primitive people believed that the earth was the center of the universe, my computer would be undisputed focal point of my cubicle. Without my computer, my cubicle would be like a human being without a heart. It would simply be a lifeless body. The computer a state-of-the-art sleek Lenovo with a cordless mouse attached to the computer. As the design office is rather dull and boring, with the varying grey color schemes of the cubicle and the desk, the work site is exciting and refreshing from the office. On any given day, I may be at a single site working on a building a ten story apartment complex or a new bridge spanning across Highway 15. Therefore, it is quite hard for me to describe my work site since I can be at multiple work sites on any given day. However, this opportunity to work off site is a great privilege that other engineers do not get to enjoy. I mean, what other engineering vocation allows you to witness the entire creation process of buildings?

Bearing the ills I have.

Where I will work the blue herons walk warily away as you approach. After a few steps that indicate your path collides with theirs, they reluctantly take flight and make the short hop to an adjacent dock. The accompanying screech they make, as they resign to the effort of flight, reminds me of early Hollywood “B” films depictions of prehistoric earth. I can imagine early sound engineers, mandated by their directors to give voice to the pterodactyls, wading down by the docks and recording the terrifying shrieks of the Blue Heron. I arrive at my destination, my boat. Upon arriving at work, I will lay down in the captain's cabin . The swells of the bay gently rock the boat. The interruptions arrive not at predictable intervals, but randomly from swells that have been redirected by pylons, or spontaneously generated by passing boats. And I will not see them, either, as I lay there waiting for relaxation to overtake me. At first, the body fights these impetuous actions of nature, and you quickly struggle to return yourself to your previously unmolested position. Yet, after a few moments the body is reassured that no harm will come, and relinquish itself to the will of the bay. The body will roll with the waves and jerk when the boat ties jerk against the dock. Yet, soon resistance will no longer be offered. With this admission of total submission, astonishingly, inspiration begins to fill the nostrils. Effervescent bubbles of glorious thought burst upon the cortical surfaces. I smell the salt air, as if for the first time. Ambient sound that were whirled around the bay begins to differentiate. The constant din of the seagulls become a symphonic background. They beckon to one another, and quarrel with one another. Birds I do not know the name of, except that I call them telegraph birds because their constant clicks of Morse code, fly-by constantly, periodically dive bombing my boat. And then the undeniable cry of the osprey pierces my consciousness. I spring up, hopefully, to steal a peak at this majesty that rules the basin. There he is, on the mast of a neighboring boat, tearing at his catch while disdainfully ignoring pestering seagulls. Light shines brilliantly on the water and reflects off the polished chrome of watercraft. I am thankful I have an awning to protect my eyes. I squeeze into the tight table and bench that serves as dining table, desk and entertainment center. To myself again I promise to make future adjustments with regarding to my comfort. Pay-for-wireless is broadcast over the harbor to service this community of unlawfully residing boat dwellers; I open my laptop and log on. The cell phone is placed carefully next to the computer. I turn my head all the way behind me and check the water that has been set to boil. I take care that the boiling water evenly covers the freshly ground French roast, and am careful that the water extracts equally form all the available grounds as the cup fills with the stimulating elixir. I return to my space, that is really in the same space as everything else, and comment to myself, like I always do and always will, that fresh brewed coffee smells so damn good. I then start my work which will runneth-over from between the walls of my head, flooding the hull of ship and eventually spill into the bay of the ocean.

Laboratory

The place I expect to work may very well be a plain unimpressive building, down a short winding lane, about a fifteen-minute stroll from a university. A linked web of softly carpeted hallways inside the building, like an extension of the concrete path outside, guides patients to a door. When opened, the door murmurs a small protest as the carpet drags against the bottom. A mother and her young son enter the lab, he clutches her hand, however this place is not as terrifying as the term laboratory usually implies. There are thin white walls, and locked doors behind which are rooms humming with computers and unfamiliar technology, but mounted upon these stark vestiges of experimental purpose are colorful pictures of animals with happy grins like you might expect to find in a kindergarten school room.
The daytime residents of this place are mostly young women, usually working long hours at their computers. However on this day, one of these young women, a graduate student whose hooded eyes express her lack of adequate sleep, cheerfully greets the mother and her child. These are her subjects today, and together they walk a few doors further down the hallway, which looks confusingly similar to the previous hallway, and into another room. The entrance to this room requires them to step up as they go in, and the walls are markedly thicker, it is a soundproofed room.
There is a 4-legged chair in the middle of the room, and a large, black television screen on the wall facing the chair. The young graduate student asks the mother to sit with her child on her lap, and they speak for a while. Before she leaves the room, the graduate student places a pair of muffling headphones over the mother’s ears, so that she cannot unwittingly influence her child’s reactions, which are the reactions to be tested today. As the door closes, there is a notable tightness in the air inside the soundproof room. Through a small, thick window in another wall, the graduate student watches what happens inside.
She sits at a computer and focuses her attention on the experiment, while she codes the toddler’s reaction times intermittently, resulting in silence broken regularly by a pattering of clicks from her keyboard. In the thick silence inside the room, the television screen suddenly rouses and runs through a series picture and sound combinations that only the toddler can hear. The sounds are not English words, but nonsense syllables, however the toddler can hear the regularities in each combination. He is instructed by this television to “look!”, so he does, and this is what the experimenter is looking for herself.
The mother and her son leave the room, and are escorted through the tangle of hallways back to the front of the lab, and from this place they can find their way back. When the reach the front room, another mother and her young girl are seated on a couch, waiting their turn.

Psyched for My Office Space

“I think that ends our session today.” I said and smiled though my spectacles (I wear spectacles in the future) as the patient ascended from the leather couch and made his way across the room before his silhouette made its last appearance through the doorway. It was silent now except for crackling of the flame in the fireplace across the room and the pit-pat of specks of rain against the huge glass window, which stood as a wall to the room itself facing the view of swaying trees. Everything was painted in orange and the flickering of the fire made motions that danced across the wooden floor from corner to corner. The sun setting marked the end of another day at the office. I closed the leather bound book with scribbles of notes and charts and turned the key to the door which echoed with a “KLANK” down the meandering corridors and proceeded to the exit as I made one last glance at my watch, knowing I’ll be here again tomorrow morning.

The sun was rising and the crushing of the gravel against my tires notified me of my destination. With one final sweep, I casually pressed the lock button on my car as I methodically ravened through the mini courtyard through the double mahogany doors, which introduced a quaint yet lovely bricked building of red with foliage ensconced neatly on all sides. The morning air was crisp and peaks of sunlight bounced to and fro from behind the maple trees in the courtyard. I stepped over glades of dewy grass as the brisk air tickled my face as I read to myself the engraved words of “Office of Therapeutic Medicine” which laid across a marble tablet presented next to the double doors of the entrance of the building as I walked in with a cup of hot coffee in one hand.

“Good Morning, Doctor.” Alicia, the girl at the front desk smiled warmly as she handed me my schedule of patients for the day. (I always pictured having an assistant or the girl who sat at the front desk being named Alicia). I returned the smile and proceeded passed corridors of rooms of yoga and meditation as spa music played harmoniously along with now the increasing sunlight that ebbed through all the glass walls in the building.

I never did like the sterile atmosphere of hospitals. When I opened my practice for Psychotherapy, I wanted to use as much earth tones and colors as possible. As for composition, I liked different textures such as wood, anything to make the environment as close as possible to nature, more organic. More human. And so I opened my office and in the light of day post rain, it looks like a grandfather’s study or even your grandma’s living room (if she had a good interior designer, I mean). To the opposite side of the door across the room is a glass window instead of a wall that overlooks the courtyard with a desk perched neatly in front of it. The sun slowly touched everything from the white rug in the center laid on the wooden floors to fireplace on the left wall to the brown leather couches as if waking them up in preparation for the first person to tell their tale. I sat in my leather recliner sipping from my cup as the clock ticked and the steam from the coffee warmed my nostrils. I inhaled the smell of wood and leather as I stared at the bookcase lined with teachings and autobiographies of Freud and Skinner and then the door opens. “Let’s continue our session today...” I said as I put down the cup and put on my spectacles.

Office Space

Here, is my future: I work in an office, in a skyscraper over looking the beautiful city of San Francisco. The building has chrome-like windows that reflect like a wall of mirrors during the day and darken to black at night except for the few windows of glowing light that dot the face of the building.

I sit at my desk looking out at the city through these windows, leaning back in my black leather, cushioned, swivel chair. The Transamerica Pyramid and the Bank of America Center tower over the rest of the high-rises. Peaking out between buildings in the distance, I can see the glistening blue of the San Francisco Bay spotted white with sailboats and the occasional cruise ship coming in and out of the harbor.

I sit behind a deep reddish-brown maple wood desk, the size of a small dining room table scattered with piles of documents, folders, and binders overflowing with papers. Two matching office chairs sit opposite of me match the desk. Sunlight streams in through the windows reflecting off the heavy metal nameplate and a few sterling silver picture frames filled with shots of family that sit atop my desk. Behind my desk, framed parchment-like paper with fancy calligraphy writing depicting my many awards and achievements cover the wall. A heavy bookshelf sits in the corner weighed down by massive reference books. Enlarged photos of my travels all over the world hang from the walls.

The low hum of the overhead fluorescent lights are barely heard over the music from a local radio station playing softly in the background. The drone of muffled voices makes its way through the walls while the sound of daily life floats up from the streets below. Sounds of a busy office persists throughout the day, phones ringing, papers rustling, the sound of metal on metal of file cabinets opening and closing, the ding of elevator doors opening. By all means, it is a very standard office.

I have a different perspective on working than most. For me, a “dream job” that I love is not realistically in my future. I have come to accept that, although I may not look forward to going to work everyday, by working that 9-5 job I will earn the means to do what I love. I love to travel, eat, shop, explore, and most importantly, support my family and if sitting in an office for 8 hours a day is what I have to do to be able to do what I love, then that is what will get me up in the mornings…that is unless I can somehow find a career in personal shopping (and not the kind that involves shopping for others) in exotic places while being a food critic on the side.

Modern Medicine

As I sit in the relative discomfort of my room right now, a room no bigger than a closet, and ponder over an ideal workplace for the future, two important aspects of a dream office emerge - it should have the simplicity, ambiance and serenity of an ancient monastery while having all the comforts and conveniences of an ultra-modern office. My dream consultation office is located at the center of a well-manicured garden and an impeccably maintained drive way which ushers the visitor into a contemporary consulting office. I envision a chic workplace, with minimal furniture to provide functionality – meant solely for the purpose of a waiting room. As people walk through a large transparent glass door, they walk across a wooden floor, that creaks ever so slightly. They are greeted warmly by a receptionist who sits behind a teak colored wooden ledge, covered on the top with a slab of spotless white marble. A square stone frame decorates the marble surface, adding a bit of grandeur to the space and opening up the room. As soon as pertinent information is provided to the receptionist, one is free to relax in one of the sleek white chairs located in the center of the waiting area. Four chairs face one side of shelving with four others having their backs against them. The built-in shelving houses several art pieces and illuminated with focused lighting to highlight the art pieces. The selection of art pieces, originating from different parts of the world provides an international flavor to the office. The strikingly unique pieces lend an air of sophistication and elegance to the environment. After a short wait, the patients are ushered into a hallway that has four private rooms for confidential consultation and examination. The clinical staff diligently gathers new information or update various pieces of relevant data on the patients such as pulse, weight and other family history details. The examination room has the state-of-the-art diagnostic instrumentation and the patients may either be seated or get into a reclining position to help detailed clinical examination. A small set of cabinets has various sets of brochures and materials to facilitate the patient getting pertinent information regarding their medical condition. A small sink and other facilities are provided to assist the medical professionals to operate and conform to the highest standards of clinical cleanliness. My office is the last door on the right and is intended to provide a personal touch to each patient for one-on-one consultations. The office has large windows that permit copious amounts of sunlight to enter the office throughout the day. There is a large smooth white desk in the center of the room in-between the walled and the window side of the room. An upright, black leather chair is located behind the desk. An elegant lamp which provides a focused beam of light is placed on the left side of the regal table and adjacent to it is an orchid in the corner and a flat screened computer monitor. On the walled side across from the panel of windows are a couple of framed pictures of colored landscapes. It is my hope and desire to move into this “dream” office of the future sometime in the next decade.

Programming Knows No Bounds

If you’ve seen the movie Office Space, you’d think that life for a software engineer is confined to a small six by six by six foot box called a cubicle where your cubicle is just one of a hundred other cubicles which are neatly organized into larger clusters of cubicles in order to fit in a vast open space called an office.  In the air, a low roar of constant ticks and clicks originating from an army of workers pounding and clicking away at keyboards and mice.  Do you have that image in your head?  Now forget it because that’s exactly where I won’t be working.  I’ll still be developing software, but for a software startup company owned by me and a friend.  This won’t be any ordinary software startup though, it’ll be based in a city that huddles the coast on one side and is surrounded by a vast desert filled with everlasting sand dunes on the other.  The summers will extremely hot and humid, far worse than Florida summers, where the instant you step outside your door, you are blast with a moist and heavy air from the bordering gulf all while being baked in temperatures well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit creating this natural sauna around you.  Luckily for me, my job will be spent indoors with the air conditioning set at a cool and refreshing 75 degrees so that when you enter our cozy little office from outside, it’ll feel like the gust of cold air you get from when you’ve just opened the refrigerator door to grab a glass of cold lemonade on a hot and sunny California day.  Once inside the office, you won’t be too impressed.  We will be a startup after all.  The office itself will probably be similar to a 1000 square foot studio apartment minus the kitchen.  Maybe a few black generic IKEA tables functioning as desks scattered haphazardly around the office space.  Each “desk” will be accompanied with a cheap office chair that has padding that’s so thin, you can still feel the unforgiving plastic mold of the chair through it.  On some of these “desks” will be computer workstations, where the coding will be done.  From these machines comes a low whirling sound as their fans try furiously to keep their respective computers from frying.  The walls are painted white; the white everyone is introduced to when you first start up Microsoft word and are staring at new document.  Most of the office lighting comes from overhead florescent lighting, those ones that give off a crisp and bright artificial light that make the color of your shirt change like a chameleon from a dull red orange like that of a persimmon to a bright red like that on a candy cane as you step in and out of the office.  The only other lighting, the natural lighting, comes through a window that spans one of the walls facing the city.  The city towers above the desert, like an oasis of metal and glass.  Home of the tallest building in the world, the Burj Khalifa, the city’s expansive landscape stretches along a straight lengthy road called the Sheik Zayaed Road much like how the major casinos of Las Vegas are all lined up along the famous Las Vegas strip.  Because of this, this city is known as the Las Vegas of the Middle East.  In case you haven’t guessed, I’ll be working in Dubai, The United Arab Emirates where the Middle East meets Western culture.

My 9-5 Space

As I walk inside this small but homey space in my hometown of San Jose, the first thing I will see is that it is filled with fake but beautiful white tulips in various corners of the room. The flowers are not fresh because some patients have intense allergies but the tulips are still pretty to look at. The front of the space has clear glass windows and doors. There are hardwood floors with a nice rug with a checkered design at the front entrance. On the left side, I would see a front desk with a staff member greeting me with a smile. There are other smaller tables in the waiting area that has stacks of magazines on them. Ten reasonably sized comfortable chairs are beside these small tables for the patients to sit in. There are six long white wooden tables from Ikea that are scattered throughout the store. There are white dim lights from the square panels on the flat ceiling and various decorative lights dropping from the ceiling. There are four computers that were located in the office, two at the front desk and two near the back of the room. The walls are beige but there are large stylish posters of models everywhere wearing the newest glasses. Along all these walls are built in maroon stands for glasses, glasses and more glasses. In the center of the room are large glass display cases for what item but of course more glasses. There are three rooms for optometry offices in the back of the office, one for each Optometrist. All sorts of interesting gadgets are inside these dark rooms with no windows. Things that shot air puffs, machines that displayed a visual road, big equipment with various knobs on them and last but not least the famous eye chart. On the other side of this office, away from the rooms and front desk, there is a lab where we made the lenses for the glasses. I could also hear the sounds and rustling of the lab technicians and machines that cut out the prescription lenses. The feeling of all the lens materials on my hands is rough since they have not been cut or polished yet. The texture of the equipment and tools used to fix, adjust, and to make a perfect pair of glasses are rigid and grooved. The coatings of lens materials have an interesting but unique smell to it but the perfect ventilation system in the lab keeps all the fumes to a light scent and thoroughly aired out. This office is located in a busy shopping center. I can hear the patients and staff talking, the shoppers rustling from store to store, the cars as they drove by, the soothing music in the background. I can smell a faint hint of coffee from the shop next door depending on where I stood in the office. I could see the sun set through the glass windows and know that the day is over. It is a very nice place to work and until tomorrow, bye office.

Lpath Therapeutics, Inc.

I lean into the bulky metal of the back door until it creaks stubbornly open. A faint shimmer of early morning light tiptoes a few feet inside but dares to venture no further into the eerie glow of UV lamps. I must be the first one here. My pumps echo through the chilled hush of the lab as I go about waking up the overhead lights. The tissue culture hood hums groggily when I flip its power switch. I know, I yawn, me too. I turn the corner toward my bench. My pipettes resemble admirals—with their navy jackets and crisp white stems—perched stiffly in their bracket, overlooking the battalion of disposable plastic tips ordered row by row in their respective boxes. I muse at how quickly all my careful organization will be undone. The staccato of my boss’ Italian accent through the door to the carpeted office domain yanks me back to focus. I crease back a fresh page in my data entry notebook and snap on a pair of gloves, knowing their revoltingly artificial latex smell will persist long after I finish work. My colleagues begin to arrive. Lowell is the best at mornings; she breezes past with a wickedly contagious smile that crinkles around her nose and dark eyes. Most others bustle in with a nod or quiet smile. Only Viet saunters toward his back corner desk at 9:30am with wily bed-hair and apparently all the time in the world. Soon the lab is transformed. To my right whirs the jackhammering of the vacuum pump, occasionally pierced by the ear-splitting screech of the sonicator. From my left wafts the gag-inducing musk of bacterial cultures and the bleach used to choke it. I stand in the middle. The microfuge tubes I have busied myself preparing let out a cheerful thwop! as I pop them open with my thumb. Someone turns on the radio, but even from its authoritative seat on the top shelf, its struggle to be heard is futile. I head through the adjoining portion of the lab to scrounge for more reservoirs in the crowded mishmash of cardboard boxes on the supply shelf. My pumps skitter hurriedly back across the tile when they halt. Viet’s bench. Eyesore. I half-heartedly pick up a stack of dusty papers and hold it sneeringly at arm’s length. Viet catches me. With a knowing smirk he chuckles, “Have at it, Sunshine.” I toss some questionable looking tubes and stack the papers, barely making a dent in all his clutter but finding three calculators in the process. I claim the best one for myself. When I finish the first step of my assay, I zip through the carpeted office cubicles to fill my travel mug with a steaming portion of golden chai and steal out the back door again. I pause. I let the afternoon sun seep into my skin—reviving it—before I start my slow stroll around the back parking lot. My favorite spot looks north to where the green, unkempt hills are free of office buildings. Only the distant rush of the highway tries to interrupt my quiet… until my timer beeps and its back to work.

The strings of my heart

My family always dreamed of coming to the united states to pursue the American dream. When the iron curtain fell, all hell broke loose and and there was chaos in the land. In old country it was very difficult to make ends meet and putting bread on the table wasn't always a piece of cake. But along with the chaos, this was also the light at the end of the tunnel for my parents and they flew as free as birds to the promise land.

When my parents arrived in the US, they came with only the clothes on their backs, quite literally, and six hungry mouths to feed. My parents did not know a lick of English and had to pull themselves up by their bootstraps in order to make a living. They lived paycheck to paycheck and worked till the sun went down. They did this so that their children could have a bright future. For this reason my parents have pushed me to excel in school but school does not define me. Love defines me.

I love people. I have always wanted to help people. For this reason i want to become a doctor, so i can bring smiles to peoples faces. There is no greater joy than a child's smile, and it is my joy to bring this kind of joy. I want to help little starving children in Africa and even if to a small degree, i desire to end world hunger. The reason i love is because i am loved, this is the source of my love for others. Jesus loves me, therefore i love others. But above any other cliche, the one thing that summarizes what i am all about is: John 3:16-For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. This is the song that is played on the strings of my heart.

Life's a B#tch

My name is Jonathan Swanson and I’m just your average Joe. For all my life I’ve just gone with the flow. While others ambitiously reach for the stars, I have settled on taking the easy way out. Now if you want my two cents, it would be that life’s a b#tch and it certainly is nothing to write home about. From my experience, I have usually given everything my best shot, to put my best foot forward, overcome the seemingly impossible at times. And more often than not have my efforts thrown out the window. To see the world through my eyes and put yourself in my shoes, I will start at the beginning.

As luck would have it, I was born into a dirt poor household with no silver spoon in my mouth. Perhaps one day I will be filthy rich but that’s nothing more than a glimmer of hope for now. I was no tall, dark, and handsome and certainly no Prince Charming. God willing I will one day find that person to tie the knot but now it seems like shooting for the moon. I was also no athlete with a body built like a sh#t brickhouse. When it came to sports, I was at the end of the pecking order and nowhere close to those who got game. I also have a short fuse and most people knew it. I was a loose cannon and they would push my buttons when they could. Despite my best efforts to restrain myself, I would lash out like sh#t off a shovel.

But despite all that, I managed to move on. A chance to turn a new leaf and start fresh. A chance to hit the ground running once more and go out in a blaze of glory before the fat lady sings.

Conversion

In high school, before I was a Christian, I lived like there was no tomorrow. I adhered to the idea that all work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy. My parents would always tell me to say my prayers each night. However, ignorance is bliss and I decided not to know about the Christian faith. I told my parents that I would put the pedal to the metal and research this religious stuff. It was all talk and no action. I wanted to do my own thing, and play by my own rules. No one would tell me what to do and I was my own man. However, when I came to college, by the luck of the draw, I became a Christian. I abandoned ship in terms of the way I used to live. All bets were off in terms of my future plans. I discovered that my life is not my own and life is not about me, but about God. After converting to my faith, I decided to go the whole nine yards and got plugged into a church, and did what any good Christian boy would do. I put the pedal to the metal and started to read the Bible. Knowledge is power and the Bible gave me the power me to be stubborn as a mule in terms of my convictions. As I read the Bible, I saw evidences of the main character, Jesus, all over the map. All in due time, when you read between the lines, all the prophecies made in the Old Testament regarding this Man became true. Upon knowing this Jesus of the Bible, my previous joys and habits were thrown under the rug. My new faith became as good as gold. Now, all pale in comparison in knowing Jesus Christ as Lord. 

Pudding

There are only a few things you need to know about me. I'm a man of action. I got what it takes and I get it done. I don't take any bull so don't try to mess with the best, you'll end up like the rest.

It's not that I'm dangerous, but I do use danger as my middle name. I would hurt a fly, but don't have to keep looking over your shoulder, 'cause I got your back. Anyone who crosses me needs to wish upon their lucky stars, cause I'll give them their very own cow to have. Don't try to drive me up any walls or bring my blood to a boil. I'm meaner than a junkyard dog and I'll break you balls. My bite is bigger than my bark.

My problem is that I haven't if I want to save the world or set it on fire. Nice guys finish last though I doubt the first place prize is worth while. There is so much to do, and so little time in which to do it.

I'm young and dumb, but It sure as hell beats being old as dirt. I live life in the fast lane and I take it easy at the same time. One day, when I'm over the hill about to kick the bucket I might slow down, but I'll never stop. Only dead fish swim with the stream.

Epic Fail

Once upon a time there lived a boy. There is a sucker born every minute and there is no question about it. The boy was dumb as a post. Born in the “fragrant harbour” and later moved to the Americas.

Fact of the matter is, he was full of youthful exuberance even if he was not the sharpest knife in the cabinet. Like a bat out of hell, he would leave school to watch “Beam me up Scotty!”. His teachers would say he was cold as hell until he blew his lid. His parents would say he was weak as a rat and skinny as a rail. Day in and day out the boy bit the bullet because he know he would have the last laugh. Though the boy was told he was good-for-nothing, tomorow is another day.

Not long after, the boy was all grown up. Full of piss and vinegar. Ready to take on the world. Because you see, money can buy happiness. And happiness heals all wounds.

Finish in Four

I stumbled upon some good fortune in my college career. As I moved closer to leaving the silver spoon existence of college, the message from the outside world was loud and clear: I needed job experience--a chance to get my foot inside the door. I went to town applying to every biotech lab on God's green earth. Finally, by dumb luck I was hired as an assistant. After keeping my nose to the grind and my fingers crossed, I have now been offered a full time position once I receive my one-way ticket out of UCSD. Although I would be starting at the bottom of the totem pole, I hope my plan to shoot for the moon will land me a PhD in several years' time.

Webster's Dictionary of Cliches

An-dy- Ngu-yen:

1. (Noun): A person whose parents had green thumbs while growing up, which made stopping to smell the roses literally child’s play. This is something I whole-heartedly believe in since I am scared to death of waking up one day to find that life has passed me by so I try to live in the moment. Being raised Buddhist as a child; I was taught what goes around comes around. You reap what you sow, and what I sowed were flowers ironically (The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree).

Ignorance is bliss when one is a child. That’s debatable however when one is a middle child. I guess you can say which puts me in between a rock and hard place since I was never spoiled to death. It may have been written in the stars but my younger brother and I were born on the same month so while growing up, joint birthday celebrations meant it was impossible to have my own cake and eat it, too. And yet every year, I still blow out the candles and make a wish…

I guess you can say that makes me a dreamer with my head always in the clouds. That cloud usually has a silver lining since I like to see the positive aspect in things; seeing the glass half-full and believing that when life gives you lemons, one makes lemonade (though lime is preferable since it goes hand-in-hand with tequila and is also usually why the glass is half-full).

I am a hopeless romantic who believes in true love; the idea of soul mates if you will, and that there is someone for everyone. If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that money can’t buy you love, I would be filthy rich.

As clichéd as it sounds, I just want world peace…

2. (Verb): To live life to the fullest.

3. (Adjective): Drop dead gorgeous

For more, cross-reference All work and no play…

All's Well that Ends Well

It seems like only yesterday I was just a kid, with not a care in the world. Now, I am off and running into the great abyss of the real world. Growing up in a small town, friendly faces were a dime a dozen. For some people, once you fly the coop, it is out of sight out of mind, going on to bigger and better things. For me however, home is where the heart is.

At first, it seemed I was in way over my head at UCSD. My biochemistry major was no walk in the park and it seemed the entire biology department was out to get me. I didn’t let this get me all bent out of shape. I just put my best foot forward rolled with the punches. From a young age, I always figured I would follow in my father’s footsteps as a dentist. By my senior year I had all my ducks in a row but my heart just did not seem to be in it. I was the apple of my father’s eye but I couldn’t help but wonder if he would give me the cold shoulder if I gave up on dentistry. It may sound like a no brainer, to follow my heart, but I felt to be stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Better late than never, I realized my career was not set in stone. I decided to take fate into my own hands. I bit the bullet and signed up for the LSAT. I may seem like a fish out of water with my biochemistry degree, but I am going to take it and run with it. All I can hope for is that this path I have chosen will one day allow me to kick up my feet, call it a day, and live happily ever after.

Science and Semantics

I wasn’t born yesterday. In San Diego I’ve reached the ripe old age of 22, and since there is no place like home, my mother’s work is never done. But, the times they are a changing, and next year I’ll fly the coop, leaving my parents with an empty nest. When I start to make my own way in the world, I may be batting my eyes like toadfrog in a hailstorm, but to stick to the story, I’ll tell it to you straight – my life –the calm before the storm.
I had bad hands growing up, so I stood (and ran) on my own two feet. I played soccer eight days a week. Every dog has its day though, and since children are the future, my parents occasionally gave us a taste of history. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do”, they said to me, and in our travels my family often traipsed off the beaten path.
My parents also taught me not to judge a book by its cover. As a child I read between the lines, I read the fine print, and I took a page out of each book I read. You could say I read the tea leaves too, and when I was 20 I took the slow boat to China. Old customs die hard there, and I was like a fly on the side of an age-old pillar of society. With dumplings as food for thought, I found that not all who wander are lost, and that I had everything to write home about. I hung on every word spoken to me, and in speaking picked my brain each time for the right word. I took the high road home, and back in San Diego to live and learn.
I’m a quick study, but its taken me year in and year out four times over to learn my lessons at UCSD. It may not be rocket science but I managed to learn the rhyme and reason behind plays on words, and lo and behold, I found that it’s all semantics anyway.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

I was always green with envy about people who were born with a silver spoon inside his or her mouth. My parents were not made of money. My dad was the only one to bring home the bacon so he often told us that money does not grow on trees. They raised me with a few simple ideals that I live by. Ever since I was a little kid, I always gave whatever I did 110 percent. I may not be the sharpest crayon in the box but I believe that hard work does pay off in the end. I always reached for the moon so even if I didn’t make it, I’d still land on the stars. I think it is never too late to learn new things. I am wishing upon a star that I can make something of myself and do great things in the future. Although there is still a long road ahead, I will just take it one day at a time. I will cross each bridge when I come to it. Even though I live in San Diego now, I’d like to think that the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree. I still have my parents’ voices inside my head even when they are not around. My mom always tells me that a way to a man’s heart is through is stomach which is something that I must learn how to do. I can’t wait to be swept off my feet by my knight in shining armor. All in due time, I will be able to tie the knot with someone I am head over heels about. A good man is hard to find but there are plenty of fish in the sea. I know that everything happens for a reason. Even when bad things happen, I know that with every dark cloud, there is a silver lining. I think it is best to always look on the bright side and stay positive.