When All Else Fails, Blow

And so it goes that, after having lucked out for four semesters, I find myself having to take a Saturday class next semester.

Oh, no. Not just *any* Saturday class.

Clinic Saturday class.

Which means four hours of massaging in the squeaky hours of the summer morn.

Every Saturday.

For fifteen weeks.

Talk about suckfest.

Especially since I already know of two Saturdays where I can't be there.

Which means trying to figure out a day to make up the time.

Which means pudding-wrestling "The Transition Over to New Semesters" into something resembling submission.

Which probably means some major buttering up of Scrub-Nazi (and his giant moustache).

Which means my Saturday mornings from 9 to 1 signed over to the dark-gods of the Underworld.

Which means a summer semester (of presumably glorious weather) where I have to be stuck inside for four hours in the morning.

Which means I'd seriously consider blowing someone if they'd just offer weeknight clinic hours.

But whom to blow?

Whom to blow?

*Sigh*