Dollar Dip Days Study Haze

Some scream for ice cream, others study for it.

I so earned every last speck of Oreo chocolate delight. And that bite of my friend’s caramel truffle swirl… also, those couple of test spoonfuls of fudge dream and chocolate creme. My brain-weary body wanted my one and only dollar to count toward something divine.

And have you ever met the nice folks at Baskin Robbins? They’ve such a heart for the poor, extending kindness to five medical students, granting each and every request for a sample. Maybe we’re picky. Or maybe we hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

Continue reading

Plodia interpunctella

Or more commonly,¬†indianmeal moth. During the nightly study ritual, my computer at the table, my roommate’s notes strewn across the kitchen bar, some moths flitted over our heads. And soon others. One staring down from the ceiling. Two tacked on the pantry door. Three of us living here with three shelves now apparently a buffet for our newly discovered and completely unwelcome dinner guests.
Continue reading

If Cupcakes Could Talk

They’d be a half dozen. One dark chocolate, another peanut butter, a third red velvet, the rest lemon-blueberry–all snapped in plastic, cradled atop both of my arms. I would grip a rainbow of balloons in my right hand, squeezing in my left a raffle prize. Top and center would sit a green T-shirt (a free one at that!) right beside a blue dish of M&Ms, another gift from that evening.

And those cupcakes would have once lined the counters of the attic of the student union on main campus. Like ducks in a row. The smiling kind.¬†They’d witness all sorts of people meeting all different sorts of people. I would make a friend from Nigeria and another from Mexico and another, well, she would be an MPH student. Everyone glancing, contemplating–which flavor would need sampled… again? They’d whisk the cupcakes off to the corner where bowls of M&Ms lined the tables. Across those would sail red crepe streamers under red paper hearts dangling on red strings from the rafters.
Continue reading