Shipwrecks, Baby Asses, and Bubbles

So I was a bit distraught last week.

For those of you not keeping up, I'm nearing the end of my fourth semester with two more to go. (Technically I'm gonna try to stretch it out over three semesters since either which way, I'm gonna have to wait until June 2008 to take my state boards, but that didn't help much with alleviating last week's distraughtfulness.) And last Wednesday, I made the mistake of talking to some friends from one of my classes who were both super-pissed from trying to make sure their schedules would allow them to graduate at the end of next semester.

And fuck be to fucking fuck if they didn't both scare the shit outta me by pointing out that I supposedly have 30 clinic hours to make up and that I need to get my clinic rotation done BEFORE I can take the state board reviews (the latter of which I still need to find out about).

Now, you must understand before I go any further that lately, trying to register for classes without them getting cancelled, and trying to find out EVERY SPECIFIC THING we need to graduate, have both been about as successful as, say, putting to use all those hours you spent at the public-pool training to do the back-stroke in an attempt to escape the vortex of the sinking Titanic. Basically, we've all just sorta been shitting and pissing and crying to ourselves while trying to keep our heads above water until the inevitable happens anyways. It's called "The Transition Over to New Semesters." But I won't even get into the madness of all that. All you need to know is: Titanic. Sinking. Backstroke. Drowning. Death.

So, needless to say, after finding out I had 30 extra clinic hours that I needed to complete and hadn't even aware of, it was of course the only thing I could think about all class--how was I gonna make up the fucking thirty motherf-ing hours that I needed to make up? I mean, that's almost a full goddamn work-week!

I was prepping to beg both Chiro-Man and the Scrub-Nazi to hook me up with some events that I could attend to makeup hours (chair massages, sporting events, etc.). In fact, I was feeling so desperate, I was actually contemplating a) offering a Scrub-Nazi a Giant-Moustache-Grooming Session in return for his help (he has a very large moustache) and b) offering pretty much ANYTHING to the Chiro-Man for his help (Who am I kidding? I'd offer him all that even if he DIDN'T help me out--*oh swoonliness*).

Suffice it to say, my usual zen self was freaking the hell out, mostly because up until that point, I'd been feeling as though I was the only post-shipwrecked person floating along on a nice chunk of ship-wood while everyone else was scrambling to find some debris to hang onto. *Backstroke, backstroke*

My significant other of course had to endure a lengthy, undoubtedly incoherent, phone call after class where I hysterically rattled off the eight-billion questions I now had and couldn't bear to wait until today to find out about (all of which he couldn't've answered even if he had just consumed the brains of my school's registrar--so that was kind of an exercise in futility).

But *finally breathing again* thanks be to jeebus, I got an email back from the registrar this weekend that smoothed all my bumpy pimplified acne-scarred worries out into the softiness of a baby's butt:

I am all good (for the moment at least), I'm on track the way I should be, and I've nothing major to worry about.

I'm almost afraid to say that out of fear that I might jinx myself.

So now I'm just holding my breath, hoping that, like a little tremulous and fragile spring bubble blown from a child's wand, perhaps if I don't move, it'll all just lie there perfectly without ever bursting.

*Backstroking, backstroking*