I just decided that I'd probably like muscles way more (and remember them way better) if I turned them into verbs for whatever it is they do (not always feasible, but for some of them yes).

I just risoriuted at someone and that's what made me think of it.

Two finals down, one more to go.

My A&P class went out on a good note last night, thankfully (despite the fact that I think my Anatomy final may have been the most difficult test I've ever taken--despite studying during the latter portion of Saturday night and then from 10am to about 10pm on Sunday, I still struggle with all those goddamn muscles).

I think my instructor senses that I dislike her quite a bit, and it upsets her a little, which in turn upsets me a little (since I don't like making people feel upset). But lo and behold, this fact thankfully blossomed into something good, and instead of incessant meat-talk, my instructor stood outside with us (while we waited for other folks to finish their finals so we could get our grades), got on the topic of food, looked at me and said "You're vegan, right?" and then proceeded to gush about the raw vegan lasagna another student had brought in the other day which she said "was the most phenomenal thing she'd ever tasted."

Bless your little vegan heart, raw lasagna-making student! Bless your little vegan heart!

This, This, and This

I haven't written much lately on this blog. Shame on me.

But last week was mega-stressful. And next week's forecast is the same, seeing as it's finals-week.

(Please, dear eye, no twitching next week, k?)

But here is some stuff you should know:

1. I cannot wait to be done with my current A&P instructor. Please, whoever is listening, lemme have someone good next semester. And not the guy who does the powerpoint presentations at 500 mph. Thank you.

2. I heard that the anatomy instructor I had last semester (the one I had a crush on and dubbed The Bane of My Existence?) is in fact a big softie underneath all his lame macho talk. Thank god--I was starting to think my Asshole-Radar was broken.

3. I'm actually gonna really miss my Wednesday night massage classes this semester--they are weirdly centering, and when my week's stressful, they are kinda like a warm fuzzy blanket I can pull up to my chin, warming me up and letting me feel snuggly and comforted.

4. Did you know you can get staples put into your ear on your weight-related reflexology point and it'll help you lose weight? True story.

5. I hate muscles.

6. I spent $25 on flashcards in the hope that I'll learn to love muscles.

7. My Massage II instructor is a really touch-oriented person (like me); last week, when I was asking him a question about our quiz, he stood so close to me that his arm and thigh were pressed against mine, partially, I think, because he has trouble hearing out of one ear--probably explains my smittenness (the touchy-feeliness, not the hard-of-hearingness).

8. I've gotten requests from two different people to set up regular massage-appointments with them. I must get a table already. *Sigh* Until then, if you want me to practice on you (which'll typically require you sprawling out on my bed), gimme a holler. I could use the added practice. (You must book me three weeks in advance for a happy ending though--just be forewarned, my kind of happy endings involve me shouting HURRAY, smiling, and throwing confetti into the air while in the distance, lovers run across a beach into each others' arms.)

9. The body still fascinates me. (Even though I hate muscles.)

Perhaps One of My Biggest Pet Peeves

My anatomy instructor last night during class:

"There's nothing that makes me more angry than when I hear about someone hurting a child or hurting an animal. If I ever saw you doing one of these things, I would *mess you up*."

Five minutes later (with absolutely no sense of irony):

"Oh my god, a really nice, tender pork chop is *the best*. Oh, and ham. OH MY GOD. To die for." (This continues on for about 10 minutes. Yet again. During the middle of class.)

I'm sorry, if you eat meat, do not even say to me that you give a shit about animals and their well-being. Because you do not. If you did, if you truly felt compassion for them, you'd make that connection, and you wouldn't eat meat. And I can't think of anything more deserving of a big, juicy wad of spit in the face than some stupid asshole pining about how much they love and care about animals and then skittering off to their meat-laden breakfast, lunch, and dinner.


----------
*Yes, venomous anger. But I'm allowed it once in a while, goddammit.

All-Consuming Bitterness and a Desire to Rip Someone in Half from Limb to Limb

Thank god we only have two more anatomy and physiology classes before the end of the semester. Thank godly god about that.

Because right now, it's taking all my will-power not to pin down my A&P instructor and rip her lips and nose and eyebrows off with my teeth, like some voracious zombie.

It's not irritating enough that she's an obnoxious, irritating, rambling bitch most of the time, but now she also is sucking the teat of favoritism.

All semester we've been getting reminded again and again and again to take out our facial jewelry so that she doesn't get in trouble if someone walks by the classroom and sees someone out of dress code.

Fine.

But all semester, two students in the front row have been nonchalantly donning t-shirts without a word of complaint from her, despite the scrub-top policy. Wanna know why? One of them is the son of some higher-up guy at the school. The other is a girl she works with at her office practice every day.

To quote Dane Cook, this makes me wanna punch babies.

And to top it off, last night, M____, who sits in the back row with me, took off her scrub top about 20 minutes before the end of class and was sitting there in a t-shirt. And *AS SOON AS* she took it off, our instructor immediately zoned in on her and was like, "M______, have you been wearing that t-shirt all class? Do you have your scrub top with you?" This was met with some really disgusted moans in the back row, as we'd JUST been bitching about her obvious and obnoxious favoritism.

Her response to the moans was, "What? Are there *other* people disobeying the dress code in this room or something?"

Mind you, these two assholes are sitting *RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER*. Like literally, two feet away from her. In the first set of desks. Right in her line of view. If she moved too quickly, she could knock one of them out with a boob or some belly-flab, they're that close. And yet she *PEERED AROUND THE MOTHERF-ING ROOM* with a sailor's hand above her brow, as though she was seeking out deviants with as much energy as she could muster. And then, sudden epiphany, she noticed and noted the t-shirt of the son of the president (or whomever the fuck he is) and said, "Is that a t-shirt you're wearing there, J____? Do you have your scrubs top with you?" He pulled out his scrubs top and showed that he'd brought it. And then she had the nerve to say to the class, "See, he *HAS* his scrub top." To which most of us in the back row moaned with disgust again as she'd not demanded he put it on, as she demands dress-code adherence from everyone else. To which *SHE* responded by rolling her eyes and saying to him, "Looks like they want you to actually put the scrubs top *ON*, J_____." And yet, the rest of the class, he sat with his big bushy hair in his shitty pseudo-vintage t-shirt.

The only thing keeping my rage from burning out of control like a wild-fire is that most of us in the back row are planning on wearing t-shirts to class next week. And the nose ring stays, my bitches.

And if I hear one word out of her mouth about it, she's gonna find herself missing some important organs next week. *GRAWRRRWRWRRRR*

It's funny. When I went into this whole massage-school thing, I went in thinking, "It's a trade school. How fricking hard can it be??" Many of my fellow students have said the same thing.

So I am surprised and awed on a fairly-regular basis at the answer which has come back again and again to bitchslap me across my haughty little arrogant face.

Next week's anatomy midterm (which got bumped back a week) covers all the bony landmarks on the body. There is nothing short of 281 bones and/or bony landmarks that we must be able to label on both diagrams and on actual bones. Two hundred and eighty-fricking-one. That's how fricking hard it can be, Self!

It nerds me up to be able to do this though, despite (or maybe perhaps because of) having spent about ten hours in the sweltering heat on Sunday, trying to memorize them all.

There is something beautiful in just the naming--it feels like what it must've felt when people first stumbled across plants or stars and, in awe and reverence, bestowed upon them the best name they could think of.

This is also why when anatomy folks look down upon poetry and literature, I want to sucker punch them. To me, naming is a form of wonderment, just like poetry.

And next Monday, I'll be wondermenting 281 times. =)

It Was the Best of Days, It Was the Worst of Days

I.

Yesterday was my first day back to school after two weeks off. It was supposed to be Monday, but I received a call in the afternoon saying that somebody's important somebody-or-other had passed away and they were cancelling all classes for the day out of respect. Problem was that we were supposed to be having two quizzes yesterday: one in phys and one in anatomy. I kept giggling to myself and thinking about how pissed my instructor was going to be about losing yet *another* 4 hours of class (we had Monday classes off for Memorial Day or something too at one point) and having us miss our quizzes, which would also mean rearranging our midterms and everything (one of which is this upcoming Monday).

Apparently karma struck back for all my giggling: We're having not just two quizzes on Monday but our midterm as well.

If you can explain how this is logical and "beneficial to the learning process," I will give you a quarter.



II.

Apparently I have a freakishly well-developed muscle in my forearm. I was told this by my instructor yesterday in class.

This would be super-cool, and I would walk around bare-knuckle- sucker-punching people in the throat with the sheer force of this sweet-ass muscle, *IF* it was so well-developed due to something cool, like a) my professional tennis career, b) my weekly professional arm-wrestling competitions, or c) excessive masturbation.

But you know how I developed it?

From spending too much time typing at work.

*Sobbing*



III.

I made someone fall asleep while I was massaging them--for the length of the *full* massage, complete with sleepy muscle-twitches (which I thought were "Holy fuck that hurts" twitches, but apparently I was wrong).

Only in massage therapy would making someone fall asleep be a compliment.



IV.

So, I buddied up with LR Man last night for Massage Class. I don't know why but he *keeps* asking me to be his partner, despite the fact that he has a tendency to act like my massage was completely ineffectual when all is said and done.

However, in all the times that we've buddied up, he's never actually made it around to giving me a back massage. Every single time I've massaged him, he's gotten one (since he always specifically requests that I spend time on his lower back due to back pain). And every single time, as I mentioned, he says something to the effect of "that was... {*long doubtful pause*} good... thanks" as though I could have just pummeled him with a large stinky salmon, and it would've been just as effectual. But last night, last night, I finally requested--nay DEMANDED--that he work on my back.

And as soon as he did, I had a total Last Massage Therapist Standing kind of moment--I wanted to run off to my little voting room and blurt to the camera "I'm definitely more massage therapier than... *gratuitous climactic pause* LR MAN!!!!!!" And then we'd battle it out on-stage, the audience choosing who is the more massage therapier and I would *SO* totally get picked as the Capital One Audience Favorite for the night. (Yes, I've been tuning in to Last Comic Standing way too much.)

Don't get me wrong--I will readily admit that I'm not "all that" yet when it comes to giving massages. But I will openly admit this to anyone who asks.

LR Man, however, critiques me as though he's been giving massages for hundreds of years and has received countless gold metals for his massage techniques. But in reality, his massage yesterday literally had me wanting to shudder and shout PLEASE DEAR GOD, JUST STOP TOUCHING ME!

You know how when a fly gets into your house, it flits about all haphazardly? How you stand there thinking to yourself, Where you going, fly? To that window? OH NO! You totally aren't--you had me fooled, you wiley fellow! Instead you just darted into the kitchen! And now you just made a quick, defensive left-right and zoomed upstairs! Brilliant! You know how you just wanna shout, Pick a direction and go with it already, you crazy fly-motherfucker? (I'm guessing I'm probably the only one who actually stands there and thinks all this--but bear with me.)

Fly = LR Man.

His hands were all over my back but in no specific rhythm or sequence. They would start heading towards the spine and then (what what!) dart insanely to the left for apparently no reason and then jam into my scapula and then thrust their burning lack of rhythm into the crook of my shoulder. It was sheer and utter madness.

And he utilized absolutely no massage technique. My cat piston-paws me just as effectively. Take a couple of wooden spoons (ala Ross on Friends) and start jamming away at somebody, and your "technique" would be about the same.

It was {NOT} {GOOD} {AT} {ALL}.

In fact, it hurt sometimes. And other times it felt like sweet sweet death. And yet other times, I felt like salami (for some reason).

I typically would not criticize a fellow student--we're all learning, and we're all in the same boat.

But HE TOTALLY DESERVES IT for his infinite "It was alrights" and "You could've done _____ a little bit harder" and "Oh baby yes baby yes!" (Ok, not the last one--my brain is just starting to get off-track.)

IT WAS ALRIGHT THIS, MOTHERFUCKER!

*trying to catch breath*

All that being said, I *did* also get the best massage I've had the pleasure of experiencing in class about two hours prior to Captain Bologna-Fingers' massage. The girl's hands were like butter, she pressed on some reflexology point in my big-toe that just made my body melt, and if I could've, I would've fallen asleep. Much much much better than the Man with Ten Sharks for Fingers.

Sincerely,
Woman Who Named One of Her Cat's Toys "Creepy Frog Man Bear" and Can't Stop Laughing Whenever She Refers to It as That
(aka. Sweet Lame-Ass McGee)

Holy Mother of All Things Holy and Mothered!

I am officially on break: we have the following two weeks off for "summer break," this week and next. I am at a loss as to what to do with all the spare time I now have on my hands. I finished a book, wolfing down almost 100 pages a night, and thankfully it was a good one. I did a buttload of laundry. I've sat outside every night and enjoyed the mild weather. I've thrown off the cats' schedule enough that I think they're officially sick of me being at home. I've procured about 1500 plans for the upcoming weekend. And I think I may even... *gulp* mop my kitchen floor tonight. Holy mother of all things holy and mothered!

Despite the fact that I more often than not am tired as hell almost every single day when juggling school and work, I think I really like to be busy--it keeps me from dwelling inwards too much. For that reason, normally these lulls of downtime would leave me either bored or depressed, but luckily I've not yet succumbed to either. Perhaps it is because I know that the return to my crazed weekly schedule also means the dawning of three major midterms, one of which we will need to know ALL OF THE BONY LANDMARKS IN THE BODY. (The cranium has WAY too many bony landmarks, let me tell you--way too many.)

So yes, I am not yet missing classes.

I will say this, however: I sure am looking forward to having my ankles fondled, er, massaged again.

That may be the only thing for which I'd willingly trade all this spare time.

Did you know that...

• If you've ever broken your tailbone in a major sort of way, you are more likely to develop MS?



• Many of us probably have mild cases of spina bifida without even realizing it?



• If you massage someone with really bad rheumatoid arthritis, you could conceivably pop their head off?



• If you were to pick between either only brushing your teeth or only flossing for the rest of your life, you'd be MUCH better off if you flossed without ever brushing your teeth again (rather than vice versa)?



• You should never pour peroxide into your ear?



• That farting is a form of diffusion?

Well, now you do.

Here is a picture of a skull:

Best Massage Therapist *EVER*

I absolutely love being back in school. I will happily admit that I am a nerd, and I love to learn. That's essentially what it comes down to.

But being back in school also reminds me of what it was like to be in high school. And college. And grad school. It's effectively flashed me back to feeling like a social reject again.

Don't get me wrong... I have friends at school. I like the people I frequently talk to there, the people I hang out with, the people I've had almost every class with. There's a lot of good folks there. But then, there's The Others. The ones who reinforce how very very odd I am, sometimes by doing nothing more than existing. Which both delights and bothers me.

I'm used to being a misfit. Believe me. I mean, I've had years and years and years to get used to it. I know that I have 101 viewpoints that completely go against the norms of the average American, and I'm reminded of that on a fairly regular basis by folks. And thankfully, the folks who I'm sure consider me a weirdo are the folks I have absolutely nothing in common with, who I'd never seek out as friends, who I have no interest in getting to know really. So it's not that it bothers me because I want them to like me. I think, essentially, it just bothers me because I just hate being reminded with clarity and frequency what a social reject I am. I can deal with being reminded of this at work because, well, I'd *prefer* not to fit in there. But now that I am doing school as well, my social awkwardness is unavoidable and super-magnified. I feel like I have a big giant weirdo-alarm wailing when I walk by people. Or like I'm walking around in a cute little baby-doll t-shirt that says I FUCKED YOUR TWO-YEAR OLD.

And some days the whole vegan thing sure as shit doesn't help.

Like yesterday, for example. In physiology, we spent part of the class discussing organic compounds, one of which is proteins. Our instructor of course gave an example of meat-eating as how we get our proteins--someone in class blurted, "Also broccoli too!" Our instructor nodded and said, "Yes, you're right. And tofu as well, if any of you are vegetarian or vegan..." And, I kid you not, a girl in my class responded to this comment by shouting, "She is!" super-loud and pointing at me. In the middle of class. No shit. Shouted and pointed. Given the oddness of her blurting this out unprovoked, I wouldn't've been surprised if someone else had shouted right after, "Get her!" and then everyone had started running towards me with torches and started setting my castle on fire to smoke me out.

Fine though. Whatever. Vegan = freak. I know. I'm over it.

Of course my instructor asked the typical questions: How do you get your protein? Don't you miss cheese? etc. etc. To which I gave my usual responses.

Cue the obligatory Speed-esque representation of stereotypical meat-eating responses:

"I don't eat that much meat myself anymore really."

"Ew, C______! Don't talk about that! I like meat and would like to continue liking meat!"

"You totally shouldn't eat foie gras because they torture ducks for that stuff! But mmm, I sure like me some veal."

Fart fart toot toot.

But later, a girl in class randomly bursts out, laughing, "I have the funniest story! The other day my boyfriend and I were driving and he hit a cow! And the cow was, like, pregnant and stuff! There were like 60 cows or something that had gotten loose, and we hit the one. And then these guys came, and they like hoisted the cow up with one of those CAT construction crane things, and then they slit it's throat right in front of us! Like RIGHT IN FRONT OF US! *laughing some more* And then they asked if we wanted to come back with them and help them butcher it--ha ha ha!" She said all this while half-smirking in my direction.

Thankfully, I don't think I was the only one that was horrified that she actually found such a thing to be so extremely *funny* of all things. A handful of other people in the class also looked like someone had inserted an anal-probe up their ass and shocked them with it, which restored my faith in humanity at least a tiny smidgen (though not much).

But how fucking *disturbing* is it to hear someone actually *laughing* about a pregnant animal being treated so brutally... and RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER FOR HER TO WATCH? I'm not talking the-world-should-be-vegan-fluffy-bunnies-and-flowers-and-ponies-and-rainbows-and-i-heart-the-world disturbing. I'm moreso just talking WHO-THE-HELL-FINDS-THAT-FUNNY?-NOT-EVEN-MOST-CARNIVORES-THANKFULLY! disturbing.

I mean, seriously--Jeffrey Dahmer, if you were still alive, I think we might've found your animal-torturing soul-mate.

It seriously seriously chills me to my very core lately to hear people speak like this.

And the even more fucked up thing is that I HEAR THAT KINDA SHIT ALL THE TIME. It's why more often than not, I steer as far away from the topic of my veganism when it comes to conversation. Because somehow, for some reason, these are the kinds of things that people like to respond with.

And you know what--more often than not it's not the actual meat-eating that disturbs me quite so much, it's the horrifying ways in which people so flippantly and jokingly and coldly speak of the death and suffering involved with it, as though it's the fucking funniest joke ever. It is cold-hearted and brutal, and seriously, as of late, it is starting to completely f- up my view of the world and make me think of people as horribly horribly ugly beings.

I can't even tell you what a hard time I've been having with this lately--and for some reason, the topic of animal-suffering seems to come up a hundred times more frequently in random conversation than it ever has before. The sad thing is, I really really love people. My heart is warm and goopy when it comes to the love I often feel towards people as a whole--we are fucked up, but I've always found reassurance in the fact that I know, deep-down, most of us are really good people at heart. But lately, I've become royally disenchanted with this view. Lately I've been having a hard-time thinking that people are anything better than ugly fucking shits.

I can understand the meat-eating. I can. Clearly I think that's f-ed up and wrong in its own respect, but I can at least COMPREHEND it. Mostly because it's usually accompanied by a shirking away from the horrible brutality that lurks behind meat, a kind of desperate amnesia--people don't want to know or see where their meat comes from because they *know* it *is* horrific. This willful ignorance (while disturbing and messed up in its own respect) is at least a sort of back-hand acknowledgment that there *is* in fact something fucked up going on in the brutalizing of animals for food. But I cannot understand why someone could find humor, find smirking-goodness, in watching an animal's throat get slit. Or joking about an animal's throat getting slit. Or joking about eating meat and the animals being tortured for it. I *don't* want to understand it. I really and truly don't. I want to have absolutely NOTHING to do with these kinds of people.

It just makes me really really sad.

This is why more often than not as of late, I really just want people to leave me alone, so I can go be a hermit somewhere, pretend that people are beautiful like I used to think, grow my own vegetables, and not speak to anyone EVER AGAIN.

Which is gonna make me the *BEST MASSAGE THERAPIST EVER!* Heh heh. *Sniffle*

Dem bones dem bones dem... humerus bones!

Things I Need to Know for Monday:*Singing* The hamate bone's connected to the... trapezoid bone! The trapezoid bone's connected to the... metacarpal #2! The metacarpal #2's connected to the... proximal phalanx of the finger! Dem bones dem bones! *End singing*











Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle! Hand bones hand bones dem... hand bones!

Death... Poop... What's Your Poison?

I had my first long night of classes yesterday and found out that I do not, in fact, have my Assholey But Crushable (henceforth referred to as ABC) Anatomy instructor this semester. This is probably a good thing as I will get to avoid the discordant medley of swooning and then angrily berating myself during four hours-worth of class.

And yet, somehow I was a tad bit sad. Color me masochistic.

Our new Anatomy & Physiology instructor is a bizarre little fireball of a blond woman whose brain meanders with an incoherence remarkably akin to my own. Her attitude towards learning is a bit intimidating (this is good), but she cracks my shit up--I have not laughed so hard and consistently in a while. Her bizarre comments will be finding a place in my sidebar to replace ye old insane Ethics instructor, no doubt, and this time they're shared with love, not bitterness.

Oh, and she giggled when she referred to a bony structure as a "horny protuberance," so I suspect I shall enjoy her.

My current A&P instructor discussing my ABC Anatomy instructor's obsession with all things death-related:

"He talks about death. I talk about poop. Death... Poop... What's your poison?"

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Continuing A&P Quote Collection:

"He talks about death. I talk about poop. Death... Poop... What's your poison?"

"Fissures! They're the cracks around your anus!"

"Cells! Make you wanna yell! ...
I's just kiddin'.""