Free to Be You and Me

Dear old(er) folks,

The great thing about the internet and Google (I like how the Google search results page isn't littered with ads; compare this with Yahoo and Bing's) is that when there's an obscure or old reference which you're not sure about, you can just Google it. That's partly why I love my Droid which has a nifty Google omnisciently omnipotent widget that will almost read your mind to figure out what you want. In return, it just needs a few moments from your eyes to display some relatively unobtrusive ads. So Google, you deserve the $500+/share that you command on the stock market. I'll have to buy a share one of these days and frame it. On a sidenote, if I were to be able to go back in time, I'd snap up shares of Microsoft, Apple, and/or Google when they were cheap; that way, people wouldn't suspect as much and wouldn't hassle you for your dough like if you had won the Powerball. I feel sorry for that Missouri dude for the constant hand-out requests he's about to receive.

Anyway, the obscure reference is the title of this entry, 'Free to Be...You and Me.' The first time I saw the title was as an episode from Supernatural. I knew it to be one of those things I should probably know, but didn't. The old fogies would scoff, frown, and make a face that expressed both pity and condescension. The intellectual/music elitists would as well. But I'm not that smart, and the world is so overloaded with information that it would be impossible to know everything considered 'common knowledge.' That's why Google is so wonderful! Someone buy me a share for my birthday; it's coming up you know. I'll also take cash, and it would be a very personal gift since you realized my Vietnamese inclination toward Mr. Franklin. Stuff that you made from macaroni will be frowned upon; it won't even elicit my fake gratitude.

You'll have to get used to my random preambles to my topic at hand (see the two paragraphs above). When last we met at my last entry, we found a very depressed me. Actually an agitated me to be more correct. There's a reason why people pay so much to live in temperate SoCal and not in the Houston sauna. And on half the mornings I'd wake up with severe nasal congestion due to the tree pollen. Trees, please don't [sexual reference deleted] all over my car and my house; it's quite inappropriate and immunogenic.

But I got over it. I turned the fan on the high setting (and if it broke down I'd give Dad money to fix it). For boredom, I finally got back on that reading track I promised to do last year. Pretty easy fixes now that I think about it in my dreary apartment in Dallas, with the minimal decorations taken down. In the past few weeks, I've been slowly moving my stuff back to Houston which is probably where I belong (at least for now). Still searching for a job, by the way.

The drives to and from D-town to H-town are the moments when I have my greatest thoughts (I'm stuck on one highway for 4.5 hours; it's either think or sleep or jam to Miley Cyrus, and I'd rather die via DWS* than purchase a Miley album). And this last trip I thought about how it wouldn't be all that terrible to live with my parents again.

Because this time, I would be choosing to live with them rather than being forced to live with them. And that is a profound difference. Being forced to return home because you can't afford to live on your own due to downsizing etc is sucky. It's like being imprisoned. Come to think of it, prison wouldn't be all that bad if there wasn't rampant sodomy and if you had a option to leave. The problem is you can't leave, and that's why it's punishment.

So I'm choosing to return home for now because it is a sound economic decision. My decision to not save the world (which I couldn't do anyway) was a sound economic decision. I had told Dad recently that I wouldn't go back to school--he took it surprisingly well, like a parent whose kid comes out of the closet after it is painfully obvious that he's gay**. If you think I'm making light of the gay revelation, you don't know my dad's obsession with my going to med school.

In a way, I still resent my parents for forcing me to go to pharmacy school, even if it did turn out for the best: I'd be racking up massive debts in med school right now to make pennies under Obamacare.

I'm surprised to find that I'm learning the power of choice now considering about all the coming of age novels I've read about the exact same thing. But I guess in most of those novels, the heroes and heroines were inevitably forced into doing 'what was best' for the world. To die to self, to save the world. How trite! Make way for the bad guy. Hey, at least I didn't start the subprime meltdown, though that was likely because I didn't have a choice.****

--

*Driving While Sleepy

**I'm not gay, not that there's anything wrong with that***

***What's the deal with all these disclaimers nowadays?

****Kidding, I hope

The Vacation Breaking Point

Dear Fall Holiday Lovers,

After about the second week of Rachel Ray and Days of Our Lives (like sands through the hourglass...), one starts to go crazy. Even F. Scott Fitzgerald's masterful prose could not get me out of the doldrums unto depression.

And staying at home because 'I have nothing better to do' (according to Mama) is wearing thin my limited patience. There's a reason why I fled Houston, and I'm sadly reliving the experience of 85 degree nights in a steaming bedroom on an insanely lumpy bed with the neighbor's dog barking outside the window. I think they keep prisons cooler than my parents' house. And they feed you better too.

I might have to return to Dallas soon, and wait out purgatory there. She wants me to move all my stuff back, as if my material possessions would gravitate me to staying at home. No thanks--one visits Hell if one is curious; one does not choose to stay in hell. And I possess my possessions; my possessions do not possess me.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and proximity makes the mind descend into madness.

Another Benefit of the Roth IRA or a Miscalculation

Dear Tax-haters,

So maybe you’ve read up on the Roth IRA like I suggested. But probably not. Money is interesting in that it’s a made-up idea yet it consumes so much of our thoughts. I'm beginning to understand that when you have a sufficient amount of money, any extra is just gravy. But a lot of gravy is nice. So skip to the next section to get to the Roth IRA stuff if you want to bypass an embarrassing story of my miscalculation.
--

Back in high school I was captain of the science bowl team (go ahead and snicker), and our team made it all the way to nationals. Though I was proud, the qualifying regional was like playing in Conference USA; it wasn’t much of a challenge to get an automatic bid to the show. It was a several day affair in D.C. at a place that had dorms to sleep in and ballrooms in which to display our math and science prowess. I wonder how far it would set back American technology if something were to happen to that place during nationals; some of those kids were extremely bright yet extremely dull (myself included). Out of the 10 round robins, my team won a grand total of zilch. Needless to say, we didn’t advance.

Besides the main event of science bowl, there were side competitions like designing the best hydrogen fuel cell model car. The hydrogen fuel cell in my view at the time, was redundant. The reaction that powers the system is the combustion of hydrogen to make water and energy. Chemically, hydrogen + oxygen = water + energy. Though containers full of hydrogen is undoubtedly a very safe thing*, the way we got the hydrogen to fuel the model cars is via a hydrolysis reaction (water + energy = hydrogen + oxygen) powered by alkaline batteries. Then to power the car, they’d just let the reaction go in reverse; there wasn’t an internal combustion of hydrogen which was quite a disappointment.

A younger, more naïve g: ‘I think it’s stupid that we’re using a battery to power another battery. I don’t see the point in this experiment. I mean, if we were combusting the hydrogen, then I can kind of understand the idea somewhat.’

The thing I learned a little later is that a reaction produces the same maximal amount of energy, no matter the way in which it occurs. Therefore, the same amount of hydrogen and oxygen would produce the same maximum whether you lit the hydrogen and let it blow or stuck some wires to make a boring battery. In fact, the battery method is a much more efficient in harnessing the energy than the internal combustion of hydrogen, so it would be preferable to have the controlled reaction that you see in the developing hydrogen fuel cell cars. And there's the benefit that your car won't blow up, but that's a minor advantage.

As a sidenote, the controlled electric reaction of hydrogen and oxygen is still considered combustion since it is defined as the reaction of a fuel with oxygen. Are you still awake?

Thinking about the comment I made to my fellow competitors, I wonder how many of them thought I was a complete idiot. I totally missed the point: Making hydrogen requires energy, whether it be renewable or fossil fuel, but if we were to somehow make that process more efficient, we’d have a clean ‘burning’ fuel with only water as an emission. The internal combustion engine is a relatively inefficient (something like 33% gets converted to mechanical energy). To get the hydrogen in our particular exercise, we used batteries (redundant), but if it were a more efficient conversion of fossil fuels to get hydrogen like 45% instead of 33% at a hydrogen plant, then we’d possibly reduce emissions.

But money talks and so far, the money isn’t in hydrogen fuel cell cars. Earth, sucks to your ass-mar**.
--

After reading some more stuff about investments (I want to retire when I’m 40 and become a decrepit degenerate), I thought about the tax advantages of a Roth vs traditional IRA.

The common consensus among investors is that the Roth is the preferable vehicle if you can contribute to it, which I wholeheartedly agree with for the many important reasons reported repeatedly across the internet. (if you don't believe me, google it yourselves)

But there was one more thing I thought about, which may turn out to be another miscalculation of mine. Even if it isn’t, this advantage is so minuscule that it really doesn’t matter unless you make frequent trades in your taxable account.

Let's start with a truism: If the current tax rate and your retirement tax rate were the same, then the Roth and traditional IRA would have the exact same return, assuming the same annual rates of return, investment amount, and length of investment. Some website had a pretty graph, but I'll prove it to you mathematically:

Roth -
principal x (1 - present tax rate) = investment amount
investment amount x (1 + annual rate of return)^length of investment = net value at retirement
P x (1 - tax%) = I
I x (1 + ARR)^n = net value
therefore, P x (1 - tax%) x (1 + ARR)^n = net value

Traditional -
principal = investment amount
investment amount x (1 + annual rate of return)^length of investment = pretax value at retirement
pretax value x (1 - retirement tax rate) = net value
therefore, P x (1 + ARR)^n x (1 - tax%) = net value

So Roth would win if the retirement tax rate were higher than the present tax rate, which given the state of our national debt, is likely. Traditional IRA proponents argue that you'd be making less money when you retire than at present, so you would be in a lower tax bracket. I wouldn't count on that--40 years is a long time from now.

There's a lot of advantages/disadvantages I'm ignoring, and financial websites do them justice. I'm purely focusing on the numbers.

Finally getting to my point. Let’s assume some numbers:
Bank account/income for last quarter = $10,000
Roth/Traditional contribution limit = $5,000
Marginal tax rate = 25%

Average annual return in stock market mutual fund = 7% (that’s a nice, round lucky number)
Returns are based on dividends/interest and growth. Dividends and interest get taxed yearly, but growth isn’t taxed until it is realized via capital gains. So let’s assume that 2% is attributed to dividends/interest and 5% is attributed to growth, and you invest your taxable account in a buy-and-hold strategy.

Qualified dividend/capital gains rate = 20%
Length of investment = 35 years
No further investments in future years
Invest remainder of bank account in a taxable investment
Taxable investment return = 5% + 2% x (1 - 0.2) = 6.6% return (accounting for the tax on interest & dividends)

Roth IRA
Contribute $5,000. Pay marginal tax of 25% on $10,000 which is $2,500.
Ending balance = $2,500 in bank account and $5,000 in Roth

Traditional IRA
Contribute $5,000. Pay 25% on $5,000, which is $1,250.
Ending balance = $3,750 in bank account and $5,000 in traditional IRA

In the Roth:
IRA: $5,000 x (1 + 0.07)^35 years = $53,382 tax free
taxable acct: $2,500 x (1 + 0.066)^35 years = $23,412
after capital gains tax = $23,412 x (1 - 0.20) = $18,730
NET = $72,112

In the Traditional:
IRA: $5,000 x (1 + 0.07)^35 years = $53,382, taxed at 25% marginal rate
after tax = $40,037
taxable acct: $3,750 x (1 + 0.066)^35 years = $35,118
after 20% capital gains tax = $28,095
NET = $68,132

Difference of $3,980. Small change considering inflation and what-not 35 years from now. The difference is attributed to the fact that you're putting 'more money' into the Roth, since those dollars have the tax rolled into it. With the traditional, the investment dollars haven't been taxed yet and those would be 'worth less' than the Roth dollars. To get the same IRA return from the traditional IRA, you'd have to invest $6,666 initially:

IRA = $6,666 x (1 + 0.07)^35 = $71,170
after 25% tax = $53,378
taxable acct: $3334 x (1 + 0.066)^35 = $31,223
after 20% capital gains tax = $24,978
NET = $78,356

So in this hypothetical scenario (the contribution limit for both IRAs is a meager $5,000), you'd be up $6,244 over the Roth.

Long, long, convoluted story short: With the Roth, you're investing a higher initial amount. But in reality, that little extra amount may not mean much if you're disciplined in you manage your taxes in your taxable accounts. You also aren't tempted to spend that cash you have lying around in your bank account.

In my opinion, the true advantage of the Roth IRA is that you're locking in your tax rate now. And although your tax bill may have seemed heavy, it's nothing compared to the 70s which had top marginal tax rates of 70%.

Why did I go through this whole ordeal to prove (possibly) a minor point, which probably isn't worth mentioning? Because it's good practice. And it doesn't even require calculus.

A quote from Warren Buffett: Investment must be rational; if you don't understand it, don't do it. From what I hear, he does pretty well for himself.

--
*come on, Hindenburg was a fluke!
**Lord of the Flies

The Rotation Files, the rotation schedule

Dear taxpayers,

The deadline has deemed and passed. I hope you didn't put up the frivolous argument that you weren't obligated to pay your taxes because you are a resident of the great nation of Texas and not of the United States. The tax-man wouldn't like that very much. There's a whole friggin section on the IRS website about arguments that won't fly, and I think I'd tango with Satan before I'd ever mess with the IRS.

Did you follow my money-making scheme about the IRA? Sure, millions of people could be wrong in using it, but then maybe you could be the wrong one in not using it (I'm sure this is a logical fallacy, but I can't quite put my finger on it). Don't worry--you can contribute for 2010 while the pretty graphs on morningstar point to the up and right, which is generally regarded as a good sign. Even though the money behind it is just a figment of our imagination, it's always nice to have pleasant dreams instead of nightmares.
--

Right about this time, my comrades have received their rotation schedules for their final year of pharmacy school (Woohoo!). The elation or pain of having received or not received their first picks have set in. So here's a couple of thoughts I have about the schedule, now that I've turned my vinyl over to the B-side:

Things change. Don't get too attached to your schedule if you're loving it. Don't start making babies with that piece of paper, because after all, it is still a piece of paper. And paper has a habit of changing on you (think about the varying value of the US dollar). Preceptors leave their jobs, they have babies (not with paper), they decide they don't want you*, etc. I think it might be safe to make living arrangements, but that's as far as that goes.

Things don't change except for good reason. Rotations can break up with you; you cannot break up with rotations. It's like the biblical days when the man could give his wife a certificate of divorce but not the other way around. Sorry--you're pretty much stuck with the cards you're dealt (excuse the cliche). Crying has helped in rare occasions, but it's generally regarded as a bad move.

The retail giants for the community rotation aren't automatically bad. Some of the best preceptors work in the busiest stores. And some of the worst preceptors work in the slowest stores. It depends more on your preceptor than the company you're stuck with.

Be careful when discussing your experiences. More for later once after you had a few rotations, but never ever speak ill of any preceptor even in confidence with a friend (saying a rotation is difficult is okay; saying a preceptor is difficult is frowned upon). Pharmacy is a very, very small world, and mouthings-off have a habit of being passed around like nosocomial infections, and like nosocomial infections, they're hard to get rid of.

You can be as clinical (or unclinical) at any rotation. You get what you put into it. Preceptors are disposed to teach you (preceptor certification is voluntary after all). I used a tacky Chinese proverb (don't you find that fortune cookie stuff horribly trite?) in a high school speech: Teachers open the door, but you must enter by yourself. It applies here even if the quote has the consistency of Cheez-Wiz.

Finally, it will all work out for the best. And if it doesn't, it's only six weeks of your life. To paraphrase another oft-quoted expression**: that which does not kill you only makes you stronger. If you don't learn anything, you will at least learn another method of patient assessment.

It will be okay. Trust me--I'm a doctor.

--
*that story is pretty sad. On a sidenote, the Washington Times has a surprising number of ads including distasteful pop-ups.
**Nietzsche

[rooster]-sure and the Extra Jackson per Month

Dear new readers,

It would appear that there has been an influx of people to my blog, of which I am very welcome of the company. Perhaps after one publishes over 50 entries, Google increases the exposure? Or perhaps I need to write about more seedy topics. Or sex and relationships--that always gets people reading. Actually maybe just sex: So this one time, this girl and I were in...[CENSORED--pick up a dime novel off the racks at Walmart and flip through it until you get to the good stuff, or sit through the unedited version of Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence to get to the part where Paul 'bent forward and kissed the two white, glistening globes she cradled'--no wonder it had been banned!]

Anyway, I finished Wharton's The Age of Innocence, and it was far more tragic than Romeo & Juliet could ever be. Had Romeo just thought with his head (no pun intended), he would have just waited until the next pretty girl walked into the picture and fall in lust with her. After all as the Friar said, 'Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts but in their eyes,' which I wholly agree based on personal experience. I love Shakespeare, but the character development of Juliet did not make me fall madly in love with her; it made me feel like a pedophile since she seemed so immature.

But the Countess Olenska... I won't ruin Wharton's masterpiece (which might end up on Oprah's Book Club if it isn't already) by telling you any more than that this piece of art is utterly magnificent. My favorite scene:

She started up, and freeing herself from him moved away to the other side of the hearth. "Ah, don’t make love to me! Too many people have done that," she said, frowning.

Archer, changing colour, stood up also: it was the bitterest rebuke she could have given him. "I have never made love to you," he said, "and I never shall. But you are the woman I would have married if it had been possible for either of us."

Most pieces of literature from the early 1900s are a tad difficult to get into at first because of their circumlocutory prose, but they are well worth the trouble (perhaps excluding Ulysses?), and The Age of Innocence is no different. It is still relevant in modern society as marriage and relationships are still (relatively) influenced by race and religion (instead of the social class in the book). As an example, when I get angry at my parents, I threaten to marry a non-Viet girl, which is pretty effective.

So read the book (or any book for that matter) won't you? And it won't cost you a dime at the library.
--

Edith Wharton also shocked me with use of a slang I didn't realize was existent back then: [rooster]-sure. [rooster] is a four letter word starting with a 'c', which I find even more offensive (when speaking in a woman's presence) than the F-word. In my mind, the C-word exists only in pornography and has no place in civilized culture (I'm kind of old-fashioned).

Surprisingly still, Wharton uses the expression in the same way my male friends would use it. But after a quick google search of the term, I find that it has been existent long in the past, and that there is even a Merriam-Webster entry for it (link above). Blah--I thought I was on to something.

When I rented my apartment, there was only one available with the floor plan I wanted, and it happened to be poolside, which costs an extra $20 a month. Whatever, I was banking and I didn't really care either way since my mind was on other things at the time (like getting away from Houston). Though as the winter tolled and the spring came with the pool cleaner (a middle-aged Hispanic man with neatly trimmed 'stache, not a stylized cabana boy--sorry ladies) who used a water hose to pump the pool thus causing moderate gurgling from the pipes next to my apartment building, I grew irritated at deriving absolutely no benefit from the pool which I happened to pay extra to be near by.

That was until a fortuitous Wednesday afternoon. While reading, I like there to be nearly complete silence, with perhaps a bird or two chirping in the background. No human talk--human talk ruins the delicious voice in my head who reads to me with a generic American accent (I imagine my narrator to be like a Mrs. Robinson-type, but with blonde hair). But the incessant noise came from the streets below, and I shook my fist like an elderly gentleman who says stuff like, 'Back in my day, youths kept their mouths shut!'

But being a non-confrontational type, I soon got over it. Being entirely absorbed in my book, I neglected the lunch hour and at about 3 in the afternoon, I became peckish. After shining the Prada logo on my wallet, I meticulously dropped it into my pocket in a 'careless' manner (one mustn't try too hard). And after getting into the stairwell but before locking my doors, I notice the cause of the commotion: a delightful brunette in a bubble-gum-colored bikini, and her quite undelightful significant other. I attempt my best nonchalant walk down the stairs, and gave a shy smile with a, 'Hi.'

The brunette looked distrustful, and her guy friend looked even more so. There's only one thing on a guy's mind when he sees a bikini, and that is who made the swimwear.* They had keyed into my thoughts, and they casually hid their designer's labels.

I came back an hour later, and a pretty blonde had joined the pretty brunette. I smiled and gave a quick greeting while dashing up the stairs, entirely un-C-sure of myself. Believe it or not, I didn't even take a look out my window to ogle the poolside attractions--I was nearing the end of the book.

But as I thought more about the situation, and how I could have done things differently, I figured my approach was far too direct. They knew and I knew that I wanted to meet them and start a conversation, and so the smile and 'Hello' was quickly rejected by their B(ikini)-shields.

What would have been better? Perhaps a smile and a casual, 'Amazing afternoon today, huh?' And then completely ignore them and use all my imagery to describe to them the magnificent weather as if they had been Helen Keller's schoolmates.

And with that thought, I regained my C-sure self, and went on about my evening.

--
*That's the real reason why dudes buy the SI Swimsuit Issue--not because of Marissa Miller, but what Marissa Miller is wearing.

Sunday Afternoon

Dear Freedom of Speech Advocates,

Yes, comments have been removed and/or rejected. Keep it friendly, yes? Please, no emails/phone calls/letters threatening to take away my Prada; if I had a little dog, then I'd be okay if you took that away, but not the Prada!

I do agree with the notion that comments of a blog entry are like the final bouquet of a fine single malt scotch (to continue with your analogy), and by that same reasoning, I could not publish said comment. But tyrants should have no need to explain themselves. :)

If you're still looking for some excessive violence (of the physical kind) to divert yourself, please rent Ninja Assassin now available at Redbox (my goodness that was a lot of blood!). It was quite interesting how many ways a ninja could kill you. Is it wrong that I found myself laughing at the most gruesome parts (whilst exclaiming, 'Wow, they did not just do that!') instead of cringing with nausea?

But I digress.
--

Yesterday, I woke up in a bit of a haze. As this was supposed to have been my week to work, my body rebelled against my desire to stay awake in the daytime and subsequently succumbed to slumber (practicing alliteration) after a moderate lunch.

I woke up in the tepid 80 degree bedroom a few hours later with the fan set on low and my comforter draped lightly over my mid-section. The light shone through the plastic white window blinds as the sun lowered itself to blaze directly into my retinas, as if to say 'Peek-a-boo'. It's like when people notice someone sleeping and instead of letting that person dance with Morpheus, they insist on poking them incessantly with a sharp object.

That's alright: I needed to wake up to get some work done. But after I used a washcloth to remove the gunk from my eyes and a few mints to freshen my breath (as I refuse to brush more than twice a day), I fell languidly face-down on my bed on top of my pillow and covers.

'[Verb form of expletive deleted, (which also happens to be the noun)] the light. I commiserate with vampires, as long as they're not the incredibly dull, excessively melodramatic, ironically holier-than-thou ones in the Twilight saga.'

As luck (or sheer laziness) would have it, my quarter-finished novel laid silently on the floor, with its provocative artist's rendition of the Countess Olenska with eyes that know too much staring off into the abyss of the desperation of her lot.

(okay, since I'm reading her characterization in the book, she is much more attractive than this portrait of her)

I resumed my role-playing of Newland Archer, the story's protagonist, in the midst of his growing passion to his betrothed's cousin (the Countess), who happened to be married. And so my afternoon went. And so did my evening. And so did my night.

At the conclusion of Book 1 (which ended on a delightful cliff-hanger), I paused to reflect with the warmth of the setting sun on my face. 'How great it is to wile the time away with a great piece of literature on a Sunday afternoon!'

Except it was Tuesday, and I was still jobless.

But as my reading had reached critical mass, I could do nothing but continue with another chapter. And another. But men don't last all that long (even with the aid of pharmaceuticals), and I stopped for the night.
--

My few pieces of materialism aside (a few watches and a wallet), I would hope that Edith Wharton would consider me in the 'no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally.'

One of the first things I will do once moving to a new city to a new job is to get a library card. Why NetFlix when I have all the divertisement of hundreds of years of fine writing at my disposal for free? (Okay, I'll have to NetFlix too, since I can't do without my Grey's Anatomy!*)

--
*joking, of course

Nightmare Recursion

Dear Magic: the Gathering (MtG) duelists,

Don't try to deny that you played Magic during middle school! It's okay; we were all a bunch of nerds, dorks, and geeks. Embrace the inner outcast. I had the privilege (or lack of sense) to play MtG for a good 3 years from 7th through 9th grades. Then I moved back to Texas where we played with cowboy boots and guns and capital punishment. Isn't Texas grand? We should definitely secede from the United States!*

Anyway, during my Magic playing days, there was a deck, a collection of cards with a game strategy, called nightmare recursion, which employed the card Recurring Nightmare to reanimate creatures from the graveyard. So creatures which you had seemingly defeated would be resurrected all over again to your dismay. I swear it isn't as silly as Yu-Gi-Oh or Pokemon or any of those other collectible card games. Though better (more expensive) cards meant a better deck, a better strategist would win over a weaker player.

And Magic would have cool names for cards like 'Ill-Gotten Gains', 'Wheel of Fortune', 'Cursed Scroll', 'Force of Will', 'Morphling', and 'Fact or Fiction'. I could use a card name for 50-75% of my posts if I so chose, and it would fit quite nicely.

Back to the topic at hand: What was the subject of my nightmare recursion? Well, there were two instances. The first was relatively innocuous: one of the numbers on my W2 form happened to match my birthday.

The second and creepier one happened at Easter Sunday mass. I sat at the back of the church, planning to slip out after the final blessing since I was driving back to Houston that day and didn't want to deal with the post-Easter parking lot apocalypse.

As always, people came in late, and for whatever reason, this parishioners at this church had a habit of doing so on a regular basis (and always the same folks). On Easter Sunday, it's even worse as more folks attend who don't usually go on a weekly basis. About 5 minutes into mass, a family slips in a few pews in front of me. Of course, I notice the blonde in the airy, sheer, white blouse with matching white pants. Oh, how I adore springtime when pretty girls reclaim their sundresses from the recesses of their closets!

So as I proceeded to steal furtive glances at all the bare-shoulders adorned with yellow or white or pink dress straps, my eyes inevitably returned to the blonde in front of me. Now, she wasn't gorgeous, and she didn't even have the decency to have on the aforementioned sundress (the outrage!), but for some reason, she caught my attention. But about midway through the mass, I figured out what it was.

Is she my ex? Is it possible that my ex is here in Dallas?

Being analytical, I parsed through what I remembered of the girl I knew. The family didn't match (there were 3 brothers instead of 1), and my ex wasn't Catholic. And I was relatively sure that the girl in front of me was about 3 inches taller, and girls stop growing by their 20s, so the anatomy texts preach.

But the mannerisms were uncanny: the same child-like smile, the blue-green-gray eyes, the frayed blonde hair, the playfulness, and even the ticklishness. A replica! A doppelganger! Or perhaps the same person?

The other thing people are wont to do at mass is leave early, and this girl and her family were no exception. I left a few minutes later, and rapidly opened Facebook on my Droid to check status updates to see if my ex was in Dallas for some reason. Seeing none, I sent off a nonchalant wall inquiry, 'You in Dallas for Easter?'

She commented back a few hours later. It wasn't her. And that sickening feeling got even more nauseating.

What is that sickening feeling? Well a crazy, philosophical thought of mine is that this world is a product of my own imagination, kind of like the Matrix but without Keanu Reeves. And when there are deja vus or doppelgangers or stuff like the recurring numbers on my W2 form, I start to freak out as it lends credence to that unlikely theory. The reason why I believe the world does exist in and of itself (and not as a product of my mind) is that there is so much natural beauty that would be impossible for the human mind to create. That is why I also believe in God, because so much good could not just happen. I know that's not a logical argument, but it's what I believe. (On a sidenote, so much evil is entirely within the realm of the fallen human mind).

But when stuff starts happening like I see the same person in two different places or see repeated numbers, I start wondering if I'm not just trapped in a massive 50th iteration of Grand Theft Auto on the PS9.

And that was my nightmare recursion: the possibility that this world truly doesn't exist, that the glorious bluebonnets I saw growing on the side of I-45 as I drove back to Houston are just a bunch of weeds in a deranged person's mind.

Heineken & Patron, say it isn't so.

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*said with the sincerest sarcasm.

Increase your... by 25%!!!

Dear ED sufferers,

I hope this email finds you well if you have subscribed to my blog. I wonder if gmail will spam filter my own writing due to that title; that would be absolutely hilarious if they did.

So what is the ‘…’? That would be the size of your tax return* if you happened to have graduated this past year and are stacking that 'paper'. The federal government has also stacked your change for you, and has assessed a hefty bill, which you have prepaid via ‘federal withholding’.

‘Hold on, g, did you just trick me into reading a post about taxes with false promises of male augmentation? That’s bait-and-switch!!’

Yes I did, and that’s why you listen to my nonsense: I attempt to elevate the mundane to the exciting (and vice versa). To be truly technical, this blog post can increase your return by $1,250 and set you on your way to retirement…if you act within the next 5 days before the April 15 deadline.

Really quick summary, by setting up a traditional IRA you can save $1,250 in taxes if you have $5,000 to invest to max out your 2009 contribution. This is aimed at graduates from 2009 who made below $82,250 in 2009 (more on this in a bit). If you already know about Individual Retirement Accounts and the tax benefits, then please ignore my redundancy. If not, read on to pry back $1,250 from Uncle Sam’s warm, non-dead fingers.

If you’re still on your way to making the big bucks, then just remember to earmark this post for the future.
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First off, mo money mo problems. The finances of getting through pharmacy school meant taking out enough loans and learning to stomach enough ramen and low-priced energy drinks to survive from financial aid check to check. It was a simpler time. When you graduate and get a job (if you get a job**), you’ll be inundated with more money than you’ve ever thought possible. You might be tempted to withdraw $1,000 in Jacksons, put the paper on your bed, and wallow around in the cocaine-dusted, sweet perfume of the U.S. banknote like Scrooge McDuck.***

Fine, but after you have an orgy with that money, calmly collect them all together and redeposit them back at your bank; if the teller gives you a dirty look, tell him/her that you deal drugs for a living and show your RPh wallet card.

It is ridiculous that some pharmacists are in debt (of their own design) when they make six-figure salaries. Sure, loans are expensive, but you can knock them out in 5 years and still live well. If you don’t have a clue how to manage money, a good place to start is to find a financial planner. Make sure they’re fee-based (not commission-based) since those planners would probably be the most unbiased.

But in the meantime, you can start your own brokerage account online (I recommend Vanguard for their rock bottom expenses ratio and their user friendly site) and fund your IRA, which you still have until April 15 for the 2009 tax year.

So what about that $1,250? Well if you’re single (as in not married) and made between $33,950 and $82,250, then you fall into the 25% marginal tax bracket, which means you only get to keep 75 cents of every next dollar you earn. After $82,250, you only get to keep 72 cents (28% marginal bracket). It kind of makes you empathize with the Republicans****.

The traditional IRA allows you to fund pre-tax dollars into a retirement account, which means that you don’t have to pay tax on that money. $5,000 (the max contribution for young folks) at a marginal rate of 25% means $1,250 tax relief. The tax on that money and its earnings is deferred until you take them out when you retire so you’ll eventually have to pay taxes on them. You can never escape death or taxes.

So I kind of fibbed a little bit; you’re dropping $3,750 in your bank account (liquid) to gain $5,000 in a retirement account (non-liquid). You’d transfer $5,000 to your retirement account, but your income tax return will increase by $1,250, thus a net decrease of $3,750.

Confused? I am not a certified financial planner, and it’s hard to both stir up interest and tell you everything about an IRA. Take my word for it: forego the Audis and Beamers and Benzs and fund your retirement NOW. The stock markets are on an upswing.

Personally, I fund a Roth IRA rather than a traditional IRA. Roth IRAs are funded with post-tax money, but the earnings are tax-free. In my opinion, this is the better of the two options if you’re eligible for the Roth. The only reason why I tout the traditional IRA in this post is because it’s easy to see the immediate tax benefit, and most young people are all about instant gratification.

So if you’re interested, google ‘IRA’ and read away. Then google ‘Roth vs traditional IRA’ and read that discussion. Then pick one and invest. Afterwards, find a reputable financial planner and have a sit-down conversation to discuss finances. Though it can be pricey at first ($300-500 per session), it can literally net you hundreds of thousands in your lifetime.

Make sure you do your research well and do what is best for you. Don’t buy anything you don’t understand; you can be sure there will be thousands of people out there ready to sell you financial snake oil (reference: 2AM infomercials).

Please consult with a financial adviser before investing. Stock markets earnings are not guaranteed. Of course the world could end tomorrow, and you could always get a big mattress and stuff your greenbacks in it or dig a hole in your backyard and bury your stash there.

--
*guys, sorry to disappoint; I have some Extenzze and Viaggraaa emails that I can forward to you if you like
**methinks the pharmacist demand bubble is about to burst in the next 5 years
***I considered doing this, but I thought it might be a bit weird.
****I don’t describe myself as Dem, Rep, or Ind. I follow what I think is best for me and society.

Whoa whoa whoa...

Take it easy…

First off, I hate censoring people. I hate censoring myself, but there’s stuff you don’t want people to read about you (stuff like how I think Leprechauns are real and that if I find one, I would trick it to show me where its pot of gold is so I’d never have to work). Whoever seen the leprechaun say yea!

I am a non-confrontational kind of person, and when I see or hear gunfire, I instinctively run the other way. That’s what real people from the ghetto do. So if there’s a squabble, I like to get as far away as possible, get some popcorn, pull up a chair at a safe distance and enjoy. But as this fight has broken out in my own house (aka blog), I have to respond. On a sidenote, don’t let people get plastered in your own house (thank you to all the people who have cleaned up after me! I owe you one!).

The one lesson I’ve learned as a retail pharmacist is that getting angry with people does absolutely nothing to help with a situation. You only irritate them more and you expend a lot of energy by having to quell your emotions after the confrontation. Don’t do it. Step back, breathe, and relax. There’s absolutely nothing anyone can do to you that will hurt you if you don’t let it affect you. Take their weapons away from them, and they will have nothing with which to fight. Some lady called me ‘withholding’ because I wouldn’t let her touch the tablets, another guy said I didn’t do my ‘due diligence’ because I neglected to process his discount card, a third called me ‘racist’ because I didn’t ring up her OTC med immediately because I was busy with hospice prescriptions. Whatever. Go on and brush your shoulders off.

A battle not fought is a victory won.

So to directly address the situation: did eggs’ comments affect me? Sure, but I have built my foundation upon my own self belief, that what I do and write is my true self (excluding stuff that would be TMI). And though that true self may be narcissistic, prejudicial, superficial, and arrogant, it is also humorous, light-hearted, deep-hearted, middle-hearted, and educational. Though I do not know if I am ‘good’ (or if human beings can be ‘good’ or if there is such a thing as ‘good’), I try to be ‘good’. Therefore, when anyone makes ‘attacks’ on my character, whether real or imagined, I have confidence in my attempted goodness. Thus, nothing anyone can say or do will have power over me (up to a limit, of course).

Upon this rock of my self-worth, I have built the temple of my mind.

So I shrugged off the ego-deflating comments. I cannot control others’ thoughts; I can only control my response to them. And when the comment feud broke out, I found it insanely comical because it was a (relatively) unnecessary fight.

But since peoples’ feelings have been hurt, and I foresee some escalation, I’m going to end it. I don’t trust that people have my prodigious fortitude (don’t you dare make a comment about my weight!) to deflect criticism. Because after all, we all know that I’m pretty much a big deal. :)

So keep enjoying my blog. Keep commenting on what you like or what can be improved. Posts are also forwarded as boxes on my FB page, so you can just hit the ‘LIKE’ button there. After all, I live off of comments because I am a narcissist, but do keep them positive or playfully insulting. Anything else will be removed. Call me an idiot but do it with a smile and temper it with something like how my tie has the most perfect dimple and drops exactly to mid-belt buckle or how you’d have to sue me for retinal damage because my Gucci is so sparkly.

Life is too short to live it angrily. If anything I say comes off as vaguely insulting, understand that I do it with a smile, and that I aim to offend everyone equally and myself especially. After all, the story of blonde 9.7 was not my proudest moment, but I shared it with you all (and you must admit that it was a pretty funny story at my expense).

People should die with stupid grins on their faces. That’s how I want to go, facilitated with loads of friends (and morphine). It’s a celebration! Enjoy yourself.
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On second thought, this isn’t Cuba or China. There is free speech after all, and you can do whatever you like (insofar as it is what I like). But as Catch-22 says, I have the right to do anything you can't stop me from doing. I am a delightful tyrant, but still a tyrant in the tradition of Nero (except without all that in-bred perversion), and this blog is my despotic realm.

So keep it above the belt or you’ll find your comment trashed. And don’t recruit people in your fights. Agreed?