Just the Facts

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I'm a Chronologically-challenged Optimistic Procrastinator with some extra chunk, indescribable hair and blue-greener eyes re-entering into the interesting worlds of College and Caffeine and Self-induced mania. I day dream about Zombies cause sometimes an Apocalypse is less scary than Real Life. I'm a hustler baby and I'm making it all up and I alternately kiss ass and rub it to make my living. BUT Life is still good cause my mom thinks I'm special and people like me; they really like me!

Friday, February 24, 2012

I'm cheating on my Anatomy Lab Group with other, smarter lab groups.

I think we've just drifted apart, really. I mean, they are a nice, friendly group. But...our values aren't the same, and with that in mind, it just couldn't last between us. You see - I want to pass (with an A), and they don't seem to care if they pass (with an A or at all for that matter).

I chose to join the less-than-motivated, non-grade oriented group on the first day of lab. I didn't know! I didn't know. They didn't have any identifiers indicating their less than stellar scholastic qualities. No one did. So when the teacher was moving everyone around and asked if I'd mind changing seats, I said I didn't cause they looked friendly. Aren't dolts less intelligent people and slackers required BY LAW to wear those little silver bracelets (maybe that's diabetics) for social emergencies (like picking lab groups)? Apparently not. Should they be? I think so.

Yes. I'm that girl. I'm sure you've met me. The one completely obsessed with her grade and who is willing to fillet you alive if you get in the way or if I perceive that you're in the way.

Due to situation-al circumstances, I just can't leave. No really, the teacher said we're stuck together until the end of the semester. I'm going to contact him and see if I can be switched, but I don't think it's possible. What poor matyr exists in our class that would love to be put in the dumb, slacker group?

Okay, I'm getting ahead of myself. Why are they simple-minded? Why are they wastrels? Their sluggish intellect is confirmed by consistently, scarily low test scores. Their official confirmation as malingering sloth-children is proven by the following phrase, "Don't worry. We have plenty of time." I seriously have heard this about...a trabillion-zillion-cotillion times. I may start slapping them with formaldehyde soaked cat if I hear it again.

So I cheated. I'm not sorry. I make no excuses. I wandered over to the smart kid group on review day and studied with them. I went to their study group on the day before the test and my scores improved. Now we are dissecting a cat and the main problem is that I have to stay with them. (Thus the threatened assault with embalmed feline.) *Have you all noticed that I am really into parathesis today? Yeah. Well suck it! Our grades are irrevocably intertwined.

Now, I know I'm an anal-retentive maniac. I take everything (especially cheese - not involved with the lab, but I still take it super serious) very zealously. I know that I am a very intense person and intent in getting my way All. Of. The. Time. So. There. I wanna be good, but the Dark Side is calling and I've heard it has cookies. I've been trying not to spaz all over these chicks, but that time is coming to an end. I'm gearing up for a full frontal freak out and they better watch themselves.

But before that happens, as I mentioned earlier I am writing that email to flee from their malingering slack-assery. I don't think it will work. But at least, I can say I tried everything before I produce three more fresh cadavers for the BIO labs.


Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Signs Point To Yes (but Outlook Not So Good)

I have a friend who sends me emails about the increasing speed with which some Grand Future Catastrophe will arrive. So, I know the END IS NIGH.

Meanwhile, just being alive I am injuring myself at an alarming rate. If this keeps up, I will be covered in I.V.'s and casts becoming nothing short of a forced buffet for the undead...provided they could gnaw through the casts. Those assholes would do it though, they're determined.

I went to the gun range the other day and hurt myself shooting a 9mm. No, I didn't shoot myself in the face! Jerks! This wasn't me duking it out with Ah-nold firing machine guns at each other while leaping burning buildings, either. I shot 60 rounds and loaded my own clips and fucked myself up so badly that I had to take off two days of work, get two chiropractic adjustments and four massage plus e-stim + two weeks recovery time (while still working) before I was back to normal functioning levels. A 9 mm is a nothing sort of gun; this horrifies me. Oh noes!

Now, I seem to have injured my foot. How? Completely unknown. It feels like the bones are dislocated or something and it sucks to walk or stand. Thank god I never have to do either of those as a person without a vehicle and who does massage for a living.

But wait! A light shines in the darkness. There is a Cyborg Cat galavanting about on Bionic Feet, so maybe I have a chance...after all they say that they're starting to work towards human prosthesis.

If I could replace my whole body before the Apocalypse, I think I'd be set. No more stupid injuries, the zombies probably wouldn't even register me as a human cause I'd be so full of metallic alloys. I'd just need a mechanic to keep me running in tip top condition.

Excellent. Plan acquired. The end.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

I don't react well to surprises.

This equals "not good" - possibly "bad", even. If Zombies were to suddenly arise, I'd be likely to implode. (This is the scale by which I measure the importance of all things, even if you hadn't realized it yet.) Because...well, it really chafes my cheese when things don't go like I expect, especially if I had something else planned. Like, "No we can't have the End of the World today; I have D&D scheduled."

A Real-Life example: I asked my sister to pick up seven Heirloom Tomatoes at the Farmer's Market today. $14. Newsflash: Tomatoes now made out of gold. WHAT THE HAIRY HELL! $14. That's $2 a tomato or as the vendor puts it, $4.99 a pound. In any case, I freaked out all over her just cause I wasn't expecting to pay that much. It took me...a half an hour to calm down, realize I had acted like a douche and apologize to her (via facebook, shhh).

It always amazes me how quickly and intensely angry I can get. Much like the Spanish Inquisition, I never expect it. And strangely, I am more likely to be pissed over some inconsequential thing, than something vital. Usually when some unpleasant, vital thing happens, I end up in shock. It's only later in the retelling that the irritability will surface.

I've tried a variety of things to lessen my negative over-reactions to unexpected, unwanted situations: meditation, eliminating sugar and caffeine, breathing exercises, hypnosis, court-mandated anger management classes. I guess, I have a way to go towards being a mature adult who can handle Catastrophes with Aplomb. (I like Capitalizing Things, deal with it.)

Now, let's multiply this little tomato incident with the unexpectedness of the Apocalypse. It's danger-danger time, people. But how to fix it? Just practice not sucking in social situations, I guess.

Oh well. That's all.