Ode to my dictionary

dictI heart Dorland’s. In an unhealthy way. I’ve never really felt, or even considered that I may one day feel, a strong emotional connection to a dictionary. If something were to happen to my copy I might would cry. 

A different dictionary was ‘recommended’ but I was drawn to the dark red pleather, the gold thumbprint indents + the way it made me feel like I was in Sherlock Holmes’ study. How could I not buy the only medical related text with quality stylish design? Rationally, this book has been the best value medical related purchase I have made all year. Irrationally, I’d like to sleep with it under my pillow, or entwined in my arms. 

I don’t know what’s up but lately I could write pages on the genius behind my multi-coloured-clicky-top-pen, or my pastel divider tabs, or the beauty of a well organised filing system. Stationary, books + printing paraphernalia have become more than study aids. I’m manically clinging to them in such a way that recently I plunged into a depressive state for a few weeks when my chocolate smelling black texta disappeared. I blamed friends. Pointed fingers. Sulked. My thoughts wandered frequently during lectures to the whereabouts of said pen*. I was genuinely upset. 

What. The. Frick? 

This study regime has turned me into the kind of person whose day is ruined if their black, smooth gliding, clicky top pen with the thick rubber finger grip is missing. Having to use a substandard pen, or misplacing my dictionary is not the kind of thing that used to put me in a tail spin. 

But I’ve noticed other med students are equally as neurotic.

So…at least I’m not alone. 

*it was under my sofa. 

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