Chiroman told me yesterday that there was a 100% passing-rate for the students from our school that took the state board last month. 100%. And the two highest test-scores in the state were students from our school.

Adrift in a sea of nervousness and UNMEMORIZABLE FRICKING ORIGINS AND INSERTIONS, this gives me hope.

I haven't been blogging much about school this semester. It's partially because I've been on break the past two weeks. And it's also partially because I am becoming increasingly disgruntled and disgusted with both my school and my A&P IV class, and I'd rather just avoid thinking about either/or whenever possible.

I mean, when your instructor takes a call in the middle of class on his cell phone, *telling everyone afterwards, "I don't even know who the hell that was,"* when his basic means of teaching is to say "You'll need to know this for the test" without ever EXPLAINING the ideas behind that which we need to know (which, I dunno maybe it's just crazy talk but, seems to me to be the JOB of the f-ing instructor), when your instructor typically starts class 30 to 45 minutes late and then let's the class go 30-45 minutes early, and when your instructor approaches the learning of the muscles of the face by saying "Yeah, I dunno. It seems kind of pointless for me to go over all these since it's basically just rote memorization that you could do on your own" and then proceeds instead to talk about how best to beat the stock market for 15 minutes, it's a bit difficult not to feel yourself filling up with a ridiculously insatiable rage.

And you know it's particularly bad when you're in a conversation with an instructor at your school (in this case, Chiroman) in which you're both just totally going off on the school and (in your case) on your new instructor, and he actually says to you, "Damn. If I was in your situation, I'd just clock in and go sit in the student lounge for the 4 hours of class and learn it on my own," and you realize he's probably right. And this coming from an *INSTRUCTOR*.

It has been *WAY* too long since I've posted last. I've been busy like I've not been busy for years. Especially at work. Hence the lack of posting.

Oh, but that doesn't mean that nothing's going on. Oh no.

Here's some fragments from the Land of Massage Therapy:

1. I massaged a minor a few weeks ago--a 17-year old lacrosse player. Made me feel a bit old--he was so little, and I wanted to be like, "You're so young, you baby you." He was cute and delightful and chatty and blissfully and obliviously 17-years old, which was symbolized by him actually not giving thought to the fact that *perhaps* you shouldn't ask the person massaging you: "So, like, the guy massage therapists who go to this school, like, um, are any of them straight?" Oh, little boy, you are lucky the door was ajar and you caught me off-guard, otherwise you might've received a mouthful.


2. Our new instructor, the one of maggot-infamy, is turning out to be not quite so good, and I'm not sure whether I should be directing my anger and disgust at *him* or at *the school* for not cluing him in as to what's going on. Despite being a wicked-smart fellow, he's not big into explaining things. Actually, that's not quite right: he's big into explaining the same few things over and over again, while glossing over the rest. Instead, he'll just pass it on by with a warning that "you should probably know this, so make sure to look at it." Is it just me, or isn't it the job of the instructor to EXPLAIN the stuff that we "should probably know" so that we might be able to understand it? Yesterday, after class started 45 minutes late due to his lack of organizational skills and planning, and after we went an hour and a half without a break, despite him NEVER EXPLAINING ANYTHING TO US IN A WAY THAT OFFERS US CLARITY, I got disgusted and left during break. If I'm gonna get stuck teaching this shit to myself, why should I waste four hours sitting in a classroom, eyes glazed over, not learning a goddamn thing, when I could be at work and getting out at 3pm instead of 8?


3. I am shocked and amazed that after this semester, I will only technically have three classes (and one seminar) left. It is such a strange (and delightful) feeling.


4. In business class, our final project this semester is gonna be a business plan we have to create for our own business. I am actually a bit excited about this project since it's an idea I've toyed around with anyways--I would like to own my own place eventually, and after reading The Massage Therapy Journal and realizing that the #1 complaint among most MTs is that they didn't receive any business-training at their school, I feel a bit appreciative that we will be learning at least a LITTLE bit about what would be involved in starting our own business.


5. In the aforementioned business class last week, I thought for a second that I had coined my own witty phrase and was gonna have to write a whole goddamn business book, just to show it off in all its glory. Alas, I googled the phrase the next morning, and someone else had already thought of it: "If you've got a niche, scratch it." *sigh*


6. My back and right leg are all fucked up and have been for the past few weeks. I am a bit afraid that this is because I've started clinic again and am massaging people 3 hours a week... It frightens me that there is a possibility that, despite my attempts at using good body-mechanics while massaging, that giving massages may result in me being in pain. I am hope hope hoping that perhaps the problem is a pre-existing hip-problem that I have, and that once Chiro-man fixes me, I'll be perfectly fine after 3 hours of massage. Otherwise I'm fucked.


7. I think my crush on Chiro-man has finally been snuffed out. And apparently all it took was a conversation in which he talked about grilling ribs and playing baseball.

Things I Like

• Hearing Chiroman randomly admit to having eaten dog food once. Off the floor.



• Having B___ (of Ace-Ventura notoriety) do a slow-grooving appreciative head nod and give a drawn out "Oh yeah" to you when your car turns on and blasts Moldy Peaches out the window as he's walking by.



• Unexpectedly getting to look at Chiroman for 4-hours in the middle of a Tuesday because your original instructor jumped-ship right before the semester started and Chiroman was lucky enough to get stuck subbing.



• Being the random go-to girl of excitement for a classmate who is all proud and wanting to brag that she's started incorporating way more veggies into her diet and is eating barely any meat.



• Watching Chiroman very absent-mindedly waving around and using a plastic-femur as a pointer for about 15 minutes while discussing some diagrams of knee-joint ligaments.

Things I Don't So Much Like

• Having your wrist and carpal tunnel very vividly remind you that, although you dig the shit outta Chiroman, you're not so big a fan of the pacing of his lectures.



• Listening to people trash-talk nudist colonies/resorts. (Seriously, people--does nekkidness REALLY unhinge you that much? It's just boobies and man-parts, for god's sake.)



• Having your car start pulsating very strangely and very strongly on the exit and not being quite sure whether something's up with it or whether it was just vibration from surrounding traffic.

Gimme Gimme Gimme Brain-Food!

Yesterday, Chiro-man asked me at my appointment, "So is the nerve-pain in your quads?" and I had to pause and think a second about which set of muscles were the quads before answering.

And then I had to double-check after my appointment in my anatomy book in the car, just to make sure I wasn't a total retard and that the quads WERE, in fact, the ones in the front of the thigh.

I hate this.

I am so super-envious, blindingly and fiendishly so, of the folks who know these things without having to think about them.

I want to be them already.

I want it to already be the day where if someone refers to, say, the tibialis anterior, I don't have to take 10 seconds to think about what the fuck muscle that is exactly.

I want to be able to instinctively reach out and touch the precisely correct area when somebody tells me their levator scapula is bothering them (although, now that I've said that, I've realized that most people wouldn't know enough about anatomy themselves to recognize that it is in fact their levator scapula that is bothering them--most folks would just point, and say "It hurts here"--but STILL!).

I want I want I want to have all that knowledge squooshed all up in the grayish crinkles of my brain already, goddammit.

Seriously... I am in absolute awe of people like Chiro-Man and Bane of My Existence who can just rattle that shit off like it's their phone number or something, down to the smallest of crazy-science details.

And I'm in awe of folks who have such a complete understanding of the body, that all they have to do is a two-second rotation of a body-part to know wtf is wrong with it. And then two seconds to fix it. And then no more pain.

I am in awe of the folks who, when asked complicated physiological questions, get all geeked out and rattle off the explanations to you excitedly, without even batting an eyelash, as though they were born with the knowledge, as though it were the greatest thing since sliced bread, as though they are still blown away by how amazing the body is, even after all these years.

Granted, I know they've probably been studying this stuff for a LONG LONG time and I've only been for a year and a half, but I wanna teletransport myself to their state of knowledge. And I don't wanna forget the shit I'm learning--this is the biggest thing. As I move from semester to semester, without relearning the same things over and over, they're kinda fluffing out of my brain, like giant flaky brainy dandruff. And THAT'S NO GOOD.

And it makes me angry sometimes to feel so far away from this brilliant state of understanding, partially because our school sucks when it comes to making the connection between abstract anatomy to applied anatomy and I want to be able to make those connections.

I mean, fuck! Let me poke some bones on somebody, let me squeeze the fuck out of a muscle, let me jam my fingers around somebody's vertebra, so I know where the damn thing IS on a real human being, not just where it's drawn on a fricking piece of glossy paper with arrows and labels--that's what I say. (I am kind of interested in taking a gross anatomy class for that very reason--that and because I'm intrigued by the whole metaphysical experience of being around a dead body. But that's a whole 'nother story.)

Which brings me back to my anatomy class this semester:

Our crazy anatomy instructor this semester read EVERY SINGLE QUESTION ON THE FINAL TO US AND TOLD US THE CORRECT ANSWER TO EVERY SINGLE QUESTION ON THE FINAL.

And this is how we're supposed to learn?

Rote memorization?

Being encouraged to study only the exact answers that were given to us instead of processing everything so that it all makes sense?

Fuck.

It's no wonder I can't remember where the hell the quads are.

What Are Those Fish Called?

• So, both Chiro-Man and Bane of My Existence have each shown up to class once (at least that I'm aware of) looking positively translucent and ethereal and with skin so pale that they look like some sorta strange bottom-feeding fish in the greatest depths of the ocean, ones that have never ever seen the light of day (and which have those weird eyes that are on rods). They apparently need to get out in the sun more.



• Bane of My Existence (who just blows my fucking mind sometimes) went off on a tangent last night about a whole school of scientific study dealing with proportions, and the interrelationship between proportions and anatomy and physiology, and how each and every part of each and every living being has a specific proportion that is intended to relate to every other structure of the being's body so that the body can function in its ideal state. It just fucking blows my mind that our structures are THAT fucking amazing and beautiful and perfect in so many ways:


More stuffs on the proportions and all that:

* The Golden Ratio

* Brief points about proportions and art

* Phi

* Body proportiony stuff


• Last night, the Tom Waits song "Jitterbug Boys" came on my ipod on my way out to school, and I realized that Bane of My Existence often uses a quote from it, talking about "fast women, slow horses" and it made my ears perk. Granted, clearly Tom Waits ain't the only one to spin this phrase, but for a second--just a second--I thought maybe perhaps.



• While trying to explain the momentum of blood in the veins last night in class, Bane of My Existence drew a picture on the board of two large hills with a person on a bike at the base of the second hill and a person on the bike at the top of the first hill. The point was that the person who starts out on the top of the first hill will have a much easier time making it back up to the top of the next hill because they'll have picked up the momentum from speeding downhill to help them get back up. The person starting out at the base of the hill is pretty much shit outta luck because they're lacking the momentum. The problem was, when he asked us (after drawing his picture) which person would have a less difficult time getting to the top of the next hill, I had the terrible urge to shout, On *those* piece of shit bicycles you just drew? Ain't NO ONE gonna make it to the top. And what's up with that one dude's eye being obscenely larger than the other? I *didn't* shout it, but I couldn't stop thinking it. So for the next five minutes while he was trying to explain all this, my lips kept quivering with pent-up laughter and I swear I thought I was gonna go all maniacal on his ass.

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*

THINGS THAT WERE TALKED ABOUT AT MY CHIROPRACTIC APPOINTMENT YESTERDAY

• My enlarged lymph node.



• Dog shows.



• Chiro-man's inability to spell things correctly. (See "VIGINA")



• Not sticking fingers in buttholes during chiropractic appointments.



• The Screaming Skull.



• The addictiveness of televised dog shows.



• Chiro-man's penchant for lawyer girlfriends.



• My nervousness.



• My bandaid.



• My comedic timing.



• Chiro-man walking me around on a leash.



• The unfortunateness of almost getting kicked in the groin during reflex tests.



• My significant-other's past snoring problems.



• The fact that Chiro-man's longest relationship has been 5 months long.



• Picking at dry skin.

Things Since Last We Spoke (Or Since Last I Spoke at You and You Pretended to Care, You Big Fake!)

1. Saw Bane of My Existence's children and wife the other night. He was herding them through the hallways and shushing his delightfully curly-haired and angelic daughter while she yammered away. I would like to say that having physically seen that he is a father has effectively cut off my crush at the knees. But alas, it did not. In fact, it made it a bit more squishy, truth be told.



2. Chiro-man adjusted my neck last week and it was *THE LOUDEST CRACK EVER* (I think because it was jammed up). Immediately after the noise echoed through the room, he shouted "Oh, yeah!" and for a second, massaged my shoulders like trainers do their boxers when they return to their corner, bloodied and battered, after the bell. I felt like shouting "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!" and flitting around a little while jib-jabbing the air with my fists. I also pictured the Rocky theme song playing. But when I pictured it, I think it was "Eye of the Tiger." Which is from Karate Kid, not Rocky if I remember correctly. *Jib-jabbing some more*



3. I was gonna say something about pain here today, about it being subjective and how there was something cool about that fact and that it had intriguing ramifications. But now I don't remember what it was. Use your imagination.



4. Scheduling classes makes me nervous. Only three more semesters (technically two, but I'm sticking around for one more out of necessity), and I feel uber-paranoid that something's gonna get fucked up and I'm not gonna get done on time.



5. Something something something.

Yesterday, when Chiro-man was running his instrument up and down my spine, he was leaned in real close and at one point, I could feel his breath tiptoe real quietly across my lower back.

Holy crap.

Though it did make my toes curl just a little, it wasn't a hugely sexual moment by any means. It was just so delightfully intimate that all I wanted to do was to hit pause and sink into it for a little while so that I could really appreciate it.

But alas, no such luck.

(And no, I wasn't using "instrument" as a euphemism.

That would've prompted a BIT more toe-curling, no doubt.)

Ectoplasm

Whenever I get adjusted, right before, Chiro-Man runs this weird instrument up and down my spine real slowly. I've yet to see exactly what it looks like but apparently it tells him problem-areas that need adjusting.

I'm not sure precisely what it is that it's reading, but I'd like to think it's monitoring the levels of ectoplasm in my body.

Just a Few Things...

1. It takes a rare sort of person to be able to make you laugh about sickle cell anemia.



2. I cannot help but laugh every time I microwave my dinner at school because for some reason, on the list of "microwave-usage rules" they posted by the microwave, it asks that we please do not use the microwave for a) canning purposes, and b) deep frying. I inevitably end up picturing some student in scrubs standing there in the cafeteria, trying to get the rest of their strawberry preserves canned before the long hard winter sets in.



3. I am beginning to think that The Bane of My Existence doth protest too much and may actually be a closeted lover of literature. Why? He hasn't been in school for about 20 years, and yet he remembered enough about Eliot's most popular poem to refer to it as "That Prufrock poem." How many people out of the general population would even have a clue as to what you were talking about if you mentioned "Prufrock" to them? My guess would be "not many." And yesterday, in a cute and dorky moment while talking about homeostasis , he started hollering "Homeo, Homeo, wherefore art thou homeo{{*dramatic pause*}}stasis?"
   
   *Singing* Closeted! */Singing*



4. I accidentally walked into the wrong changing-room after I got adjusted on Monday. And there were people in there. And they were changing, as people typically do in changing rooms. And for a second, I was about ready to shout, "What the hell are you doing in my changing room?!?!"
   
   I really do suspect I was Inspector Clouseau in a past life sometimes.

Catch-23, -24, and -25

When my chiro A&P instructor tried to adjust me yesterday, my muscles had everything so tightly locked in place that there was no delightful pop and glorious realignment of vertebra. This clearly frustrated him, and he flippantly grouched about how I have to not be so tense when he's adjusting me.

Admittedly, part of the fact that I can't relax is that I'm always thinking that he's gonna adjust a fart out of me. I mean, when you're bent over like you're ready to take it up the ass, your tail high in the air and your back arched, with someone about ready to thunk down on your lower back, it's hard not to feel like a fireplace bellow, ready to foof out a wee bit of breathy stink.

Admittedly, a second part of the reason I am sometimes tense is that I find him a wee bit cute (in a charmingly dorky kind of way), so interacting with him some days makes me feel a bit giggly on my insides, which in turn makes me not wanna rip one in front of him, which in turn makes me a wee bit tense.

But ultimately, the main reason I'm so tense is that my body is its own Catch-22, and I wish he'd realize that already. I wouldn't be so damn tense if my muscles weren't completely locked up. And my muscles wouldn't be completely locked up if I weren't so damn tense all the time.

*Realizing that might not precisely be a Catch-22 after all, but you get the point*

The thing is, my body needs to be adjusted and retrained so that the muscles are more relaxed. But right now it can't relax enough to HAVE the muscles adjusted and retrained. (Still not a Catch-22?) So I'm stuck in an unpleasant limbo.

And grumbling under his breath about me being too tense all the time doesn't aid in loosening me up. In fact, most of the time it makes me even more tense. (Catch-22?? Catch-22???)

So between my swoony farting-fears and my tight muscles yesterday, it was not so good a session. And it was made even less successful when it ended with him placing me in some creepy Hannibal-Lecter-esque adjustment device that he's never used on me before.

Word of advice, Chiro-A&P man: using devices that make a potentially-gassy, slightly crushing individual think of clothes made out of human flesh and a penchant for human livers and fine chianti: not so relaxing.

The Transportation of Marine Life

I think I had a titillating dream last night about my chiropractic A&P instructor from last semester.

Not erotic, mind you, but definitely titillating.

Unfortunately, I cannot remember that part of the dream for the life of me.

I DO remember a not-quite-so-titillating part of the dream though: He stood around while my one cat (who was also apparently a fish) bobbed around in an aquarium and playfully tried to attack my hand through a gap in the glass where water apparently defied its chemical properties and managed not to leak out.

And then I explained to him a bit about the transportation of marine life.

Hmmm.

Maybe that *WAS* the titillating part after all.

Poo Bones

So I finally sucked it up and went to my chiropractor/instructor last week after my head suddenly began to feel like a bowling ball on a popsicle-stick and I literally would wobble sometimes when I walked because my equilibrium was that off.

I was desperate.

Needless to say, I am still afraid of shitting myself.

I also have a more generalized fear of the actual bone-adjustment thrust, not because it hurts and I am a baby when it comes to pain, but moreso because it grosses me out. It's like *sudden pressure* and KACHUNK WAHTHUMP your bones jam into some different way of sitting. That and when he adjusts my neck, I have a brief moment of skipped heartbeat where I think to myself, Oh my god, this is like in that one horror movie where the bad guy breaks the victim's neck with his bare hands with just one minor twist of the neck.

That thought is enough to send a bit of pee trickling down my thigh.

I hope my brain gets adjusted to getting adjusted (buddum chii) and stops being so nervous for hours ahead of time as it's gonna be a twice a week thing for a while and I'm gonna have a fricking heart attack soon if I keep it up.

Despite all my trepidation, I must say, I have never felt so damn solid and strong and ass-whooping posturized as I did last Thursday. I actually had to adjust my rearview mirror up a few inches higher when I got into my car, that's how much the damn adjustment actually effected my posture. And I felt like fricking post-sex melty goodness for a few hours afterwards. Glory be.

Having my instructor as a chiropractor makes me feel suddenly old though--he's less than 2 years older than me, so everytime we're in any sort of clinical environment, I find myself wanting to shout, "Stop playing! We could've played doctor together in my sandbox when we were like five! So stop pretending you know what the hell you're doing!"

I fear, however, that were I actually to shout it, that would be the precise moment he'd decide to send a nice squirty stream of stink down the inside of my leg.

Two Things

My schedule next semester:

• Monday: Anatomy 6-8pm


• Tuesday: Physiology 6-9pm


• Wednesday: Psychology of Health 6-8pm


• March 2-4 (Friday--6-10pm, Saturday 9-5:30, Sunday 9-5:30): Neuromuscular Therapy Seminar, Part I


• March 16-18 (Friday--6-10pm, Saturday 9-5:30, Sunday 9-5:30): Neuromuscular Therapy Seminar, Part II

I am a bit paranoid about my schedule because as of right now, not very many people have signed up for the evening A&P classes. If 10 people don't sign up, I'm gonna have to take the day class instead, which means the most pain-in-the-ass fucked up work schedule ever, as the class runs from 8:30am to 2:30pm on Tuesdays. Good news if the class ISN'T cancelled: The Bane of My Existence is teaching it. *Conflicted sigh*

Oh, and ps. My A&P instructor touched my ass-dimples last night. I am sure glad I wasn't wearing my laundry-day granny-panties. =)

Explosive!

I've been contemplating going to see my A&P instructor--who is a chiropractor--about my carpal tunnel and recent back-pain to see if an adjustment might help, seeing as he apparently is a fricking miracle-worker according to those who've gone to see him.

However, I can't quite decide whether I should or not because although he offers wicked-good student discounts on follow-up visits, the first visit (complete with x-rays and whatnot) is a pretty penny.

The other major reason I'm leery is that HE MADE SOMEONE SHIT THEMSELVES WHEN HE WAS ADJUSTING THEM.

Yes.

You heard me.

Poop. All over the place.

I say that in horror not because he's a malpractice-suit just waiting to happen but because it's not a hugely abnormal response (apparently he was adjusting their lumbar vertebra, I think, which has nerves which innervate some of the digestive organs). And knowing my luck, I'd end up shitting all over myself. And how would I ever be able to look him in the face again if that happened?

Precisely.

Things About the Things and the Subarachnoid Space and C1 is Not a Dermatome and Hi and Dysfunctional Gaydar Blaring Pre-Central Gyri!

(Otherwise Known as "Things That Have Happened in Massage-Land Over the Past Couple Weeks")

1. My mom came in for an aromatherapy massage last week. Of course, I fucked up a whole bunch of shit that I normally don't fuck up (forgot my bolster-placement and forgot a pillow-case for the face-rest thing). She apparently enjoyed it nonetheless, despite the fact that the office-folks had queued up some sorta of bizarre flamenco relaxation music that made it feel like a short man in a sombrero was standing in the corner, playing joyfully on his extremely tiny guitar.



2. I scared both me and my A&P instructor by getting a 100% on my Physiology midterm. And apparently multiple non-100% test scores averaged with a 100% midterm score somehow = 100% (which is my grade for the class thus far). I am a bit confused as to how this is mathematically feasible (anything under 100% averaged with 100% would make the end result inevitably less than 100%), but I am just gonna chalk it up to his mad math skillz which (according to rumors) are as piss-poor as his spelling ("vigina!"). I mention the grade not to brag, but because my brain feels all creepy lately, like Rain-Man-esque or something. Like it's just stacking up all these little tiny notecards with random pieces of info all over the place in that little 3-lb. area and it just keeps flipping and flipping and flipping through them at random.* Quiet, brain. Quiet. Quiet, I say. In particular, it's been absorbing A&P information in this voracious manner like it's some behemoth black hole or some super-stoned frat-boy chowing down on Cheetos. I mean, I can almost physically hear the suction noise as the tidbit of info is vortexed into my brain and jammed somewhere into its recesses. It's a-starting to scare me a bit as it feels like when I speak I'm gonna diarrhea out some weird (but interesting) tidbit about the brain or spinal cord instead of normal human conversation. Or instead of saying Hi to some coworker in passing, I'm going to blurt out the name of a spinal segment and its attached nerves. Also daunting is the fact that I can now watch really bad crime investigation/medical-drama shows and actually recognize what they're talking about. Last night, one of Dr. Gregory House's henchmen said something about "the subarachnoid space" and I shouted, "I FUCKING KNOW THAT!" at my cats. They seemed unimpressed.



3. I realized that I have to stop assuming people are gay when I don't know for sure. Even if they are flaming. I used to yell at people for doing just that, and yet I've found myself doing exactly the same, only to be proven wrong in both instances despite the fact that my "gaydar" was blaring. Flaming spa-massage fellow has a wife. I got to see her in a paper-bra. Gaydar is clearly clearly broken and/or needs new batteries.



4. I also got to see my mom's eyes widen as the extremely-tattooed fellow in my clinic put his hands all over my shoulders and back while introducing himself to her last Thursday. I have finally gotten used to the fact that he is very touchy-feely in a (thankfully) non-threatening way, but it was TOTALLY worth it not to have warned her ahead of time, just to see her eyes half-bulge out of her head.



5. I feel like I drank a lot of coffee in the past hour, but I totally didn't. *Twitching just a little and flipping through those notecards one more time*

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*LL: It reminds me of how you described when you were little trying to count all the cracks in the sidewalk (or lifting your feet up over them or something to that effect) as you drove quickly by in the car. I probably totally butchered the details of that tale, but I love that story nonetheless. *Flipping some more and shutting up*

One Must Learn to Correctly Spell the Pee-Pee

Yesterday night, we got to watch a cadaver video that illustrated all the muscles affecting the upper extremities and scapula and their accompanying actions. It was really kinda cool (and yet creepy) watching an alive man pull on a dead (wo)man's flexor digitorum profundis and see her fingers flex in direct response, especially when there is no skin covering them so it's all just muscle muscle muscle. The only thing that really creeped me out quite a bit were the shots where the forearm and wrist muscles were exposed but the flesh was still remaining on the hand itself. It was strange and leathery and looked like some sort of creepy flesh-glove. I also found myself a bit surprised and weirded out by how large an artery actually is. I must say though, if I hadn't been veg*n prior to watching that, I think I most definitely would've been afterwards.

In other news, our A&P instructor apparently does not know how to spell the word "VAGINA." (On his powerpoint Monday night, it was spelled "VIGINA.") This mispelling is presumably either due to a) lack of use (double-entendre intended), b) complete lack of spelling abilities, or c) a typo. Fortunately for him, I suspect that the second option is the case and not so much the first.

Nonetheless: good god, man!