Life is like a box of jalapenos

I have slowly celebrated my one month hazing in the Sunshine State by the passing of my rent check into my landlord's mail slot. In the past 48 hours, I have probably had a total of 5 hours of shut-eye and today, my body has rebelled and kicked my brain on the inside and landed my intestines in feverish convulsions as it attempts to empty itself down the Florida sewage system. And so begins a very longed-for, fruitful career in medicine.

Yesterday was a day of deadlines. I don't even know how many times it was that I was reminded in BOLD that a paper handed in after 6 pm would mean an effort flushed down the toilet and all those sleepless nights might as well have been on Mars and I attending the Martian Interplanetary Interspecies School of Medicine. As planning goes, nothing went accordingly starting with the morning of oversleeping. As I was rushing to proof read my paper before I had to leave for a most exciting afternoon on lectures on asthma, my printer runs out of ink but had to wait to get filled because the world would explode if I did not acquire the know-how about the diagnosis, treatment and management of asthma. By the time this knowledge enriching process is over, it is 4:30 and I enter the free way like a bat out of hell meeting other bats out of hell as we all try to leave the bat cave in rush hour traffic. By the time the printer gets filled and decides it finally wants to not act insane by pretending it cannot understand my commands to print, it is 5:30. I haul ass out of my little place behind someone's garage only to encounter merging traffic from a University of Miami Convocation party. I am stuck in hell, literally, as beads of fat sweat start to pour from my temples. At 5:45, I am still in traffic and had I something to blast a path before me, I would have. This left me with a very painful decision - the decision of calling the professor who already knows me by name because of my "inappropriate" comments on Miami drivers, and asking for his gracious permission, if it was necessary, to hand in my paper after the decided dateline. The phone rings and the tone of the voice that answers queries the necessity of disturbing inner peace for which I was so nervous that I neglected to apologize. Short of stuttering like a little girl and jumbling up my words with my Singaporean accent (employed in time of great stress), I spurted them out like a bullet train traveling from Nagasaki International Airport to Shinjuku. Meanwhile, I am cringing in my seat, my butt puckered up until there was no hope of seeing daylight, eyes shut (still in traffic) as I wait to be reprimanded for such a last minute attempt and for the lack of planning and factoring traffic into the eternal equation of traveling from point A to point B. The almighty response was fortunately in my favor and as soon as I heard those words, I said : 'kay, thank you, good bye" and promptly hung up.
My intestines held up and I quit shaking and, as all things would have it, traffic started to move and move quickly and I reached my destination with too much time to spare. Had I but waited a few more seconds, I would have forfeited that unnecessary phone call. I can just see him now, in his mighty office in the penthouse, scribbling something beside my name in his pictured roster of the class, which probably reads in bold: IDIOT.