My nemesis, the tank

Today I got to experience what it would be like to live in the dystopia of my favorite Kurt Vonnegut short story, Harrison Bergeron. In the story, everyone is forced by the United States Handicapper General to have the same level of intelligence, physical attractiveness, and athleticism. Ballerinas wear weights so they're not more graceful than anyone else, attractive people wear ugly masks, and smart people have radios in their ears that broadcast grating sounds every once in a while so they can't think straight. Judging by my experience today, I guess I'm a smart person.

I got to show off my mad anal retentive skills again by sorting some frozen gallbladder, liver, and various other organ samples, but unlike the blood lollipops, these samples were alive, so they had to be kept in liquid nitrogen. The last time I dealt with liquid nitrogen, I imagined my arm freezing and breaking into tiny little arm pieces, so I was extremely careful. But I've been dealing with liquid nitrogen all week, so the sense of danger has worn off and I no longer imagine the various situations that would end in some part of me freezing and shattering.

But just as my mind started to wander to the next time I could get my cookie fix, BLAAAAAA! What the?! That was the worst, most piercing sound I ever heard. Totally freaked out, I looked around the empty room, trying to find the prankster with the air horn, but didn't find anything. So I went back to work. A few minutes later, BLAAAAAA! Ok, so it's not an air horn. Is it an alarm? More searching, still nothing. A while later, BLAAAAAA! This time I was pouring liquid nitrogen from a pressurized tank into my bucket and felt a burst of air on my face. Turns out one of the tanks was BLAAAAAAing while venting excess air. I didn't want the tank to explode (that would be way worse than a frozen arm), so I let the tank keep on venting. All day long.

No matter how much I steeled myself for the next BLAAAAAA, I always flinched. I began to believe that the tank was messing with me, surprising me when I least expected it. BLAAAAAA! Touché, tank. Sometimes people would come into the room and the tank would scream, BLAAAAAA, and they would freak out just like I did the first time I heard it. After I was done flinching, I laughed to myself at the looks on their faces. Finally, I came to an understanding with the tank. It was just trying to keep me safe is all. I'd been working around liquid nitrogen so long I'd started to get too comfortable with it. The tank was there to say, "Put on your gloves, Jill! BLAAAAAA! Try not to splash yourself. BLAAAAAA!" So thanks, tank, for looking out for me.

I wonder which is worse: a world where people are forced to be equal so that no one feels inferior or a world where an otherwise sane person starts to believe that a tank has a personality.