At ten minutes until 8 last night, Lena and I decided we would continue our Grey's marathon with some cranberry and vodka. Much to our dismay, the liquor was M.I.A. To compensate, we stole Wiker's beer. I thought that karma had gotten the best of us when the beer tasted like a moldy ball sack, but she was just beginning to rear her ugly head.
Today at my psychiatric clinical, I heard the "kkkkrrrpt!" of my pants ripping. Right there in my crotch was a hole. As the day went on, the hole spread into a full blown, four finger wide beauty. This excessive spread may have been due to the fact that I was running around hidden halls, putting my finger down my pants and out the hole, and poking the only male nurse in my clinical group. The pokes were followed by me smacking my hand over my mouth to dilute the fact that I was giggling obnoxiously loud at how funny I'm not. The point is, the floor I was on has a plethora of troubled adolescent males and my scandalous black panties (THANK GOD that I actually wore some today) were all about being in your face. Speaking of my clinical group, I am so bummed that not a one of them knows who Dr. Steve Bruel is... quite disappointed.
Anyway, I blame you, Miley Cyrus. Perhaps if your voice wasn't so gawd damn annoying, the pants you make wouldn't rip so easily.
For now, though, I am going to make a pot of coffee and try to learn about the anatomic and physiologic mechanisms of several cancers. This tantalizing task will be done so that I can then forget the true aspects of what I've learned and apply it to some bullshit NCLEX-style questions (I hate those things). Yum, coffee...
it was fun to search for the perfect tree while running around the fields like a Taliban marshmallow puff man due to the excessive scarfs and layering. I can fairly confidently contest that the perfect tree was never found and the my family settled for some lack-luster, mediocre tree after copious amounts of complaining. My mom had this really cute tree skirt with gold and glittery reindeer on it. Every morning, these little white specs covered the skirt, so every morning my mom shook it off. None of my family members ever really gave it much thought. Well, we probably should have because on that Christmas morning, as my sisters and I more or less teleported down the steps to see what Santa had brought us, we were attacked by a swarm of flying red ants. They were EVERYWHERE... all through the house, in the present wrapping, probably up my nose and the likes. The tree was the culprit. It had been the hub, the mother board, the main shelter supplier for nearly a month as the insects procreated, cultivated, and grew. The bastard was immediately removed from the house and we evacuated to the safety of my Mimi's. The moral of the story is... Happy birthday, Jesus. Happy birthday, infection of flying red ants. Ironic, aye?
At ten minutes until 8 last night, Lena and I decided we would continue our Grey's marathon with some cranberry and vodka. Much to our dismay, the liquor was M.I.A. To compensate, we stole Wiker's beer. I thought that karma had gotten the best of us when the beer tasted like a moldy ball sack, but she was just beginning to rear her ugly head.
