As the monotony of this past weekend chock full of boring speeches and long lines begins to fade in my mind, and the blisters on my feet from uncomfortable shoes heal, it has finally hit me.
I did it. I fucking graduated from college summa cum laude. No one thought I was going to do it, and I proved them all wrong just like I always do.
And now I cannot I say “I’m a student” when people ask me what I do, I can say “I’m a nurse.” And I am. I start work on July 18.
Well, I have decided to give thanks to those who have helped to see me though these long, long years.
*The Daver: with your undying support and your knack for talking me down from a sheer panic, and your willingness to hold my hair back while I barf from stress, you have been my numero uno* support system. You even pretended to listen while I described in vivid detail the green stuff that I had to scrape off of some other dude’s wang during clinical’s without throwing up.
You deserve a medal or something, man.
*The Benner, my son. You are my first reason for becoming a nurse, and the thing I thank God for most each and every day. You have taught me well to stop and look at the world around me and appreciate the smallest bug and the grandest planet. I can now ALWAYS stop and see the forest for the trees.
*BeJeweled. for the low cost of $4.99, I was able to purchase a version for my phone that I spent many a 3 hour lecture playing. You saved me from pulling out my own eyes with my admittedly long fingernails or gnawing off part of my own arm from the complete and total boredom that was my nursing classes.
*SlimFast. You have saved my diet from many a delicious looking donut. Although you may not taste any better than licking my cat’s butthole, but you have consistently provided me with many vitamins and minerals essential to my body’s well-being.
*Sugar-Free Red Bull. The taste of your brew is essentially no different than drinking Drano, but on many an early, early morning after a late, late night, you have enabled me to get to class or clinical without killing anybody, especially myself. Which, really, was the only one who mattered to me.
*Parliament Lights- the fragrant aroma of your smoke, the wonderful taste in my mouth, the nifty filters that make a sun-shape while being smoked, are just some of the many fantastic components to my addiction. Honestly, you were often the only thing that could get me out of bed when the alarm clock reared it’s ugly head.
*Ortho-Evra- although your adhesive turns grayish black and crusty by the end of the week, and sometimes you itch like herpes, you have successfully prevented me from becoming pregnant with any more children before I am damn ready to do so. Thanks for not letting me get inconveniently knocked up again.
If I neglected to thank you, let me be the first to explain that I did so simply because I hate you. I hate you with all of my heart and soul, and wish that I’d never met you.
*That means “number one” in Spanish. I know that because I have a COLLEGE DEGREE now.
I love men. I really do. I make no bones about it. They aren’t catty unless they’re gay, bitchy unless they have their period, sleazy unless, well, they are, or girly unless there’s a large critter in you’re garage that they don’t want to deal with. I love women. But I love the dudes too.
They tell you what they think about you without mincing words most of the time. And after you tell them what YOU think of THEM, they still love you and call you and tell you when you look like you ate a bowl of Ugly-O’s for breakfast. Most guys don’t look down on you if you didn’t breastfeed your kid for 12 months and they probably don’t really care if you wear the same shirt twice in one week.
That said, I had forgotten how much I hate to LIVE with them. Now sure, let’s be honest, it’s nice to have a *ahem*(slightly) bigger person to be there after a scary movie to “protect” you from the evil girl in the closet. Or to pretend that they’re going to take out the trash and lift heavy stuff except when they totally don’t.
Plus, they’ll hook up anything electronic which means that I don’t have to beg someone smarter than me (which is most of the population) to do it.
When I don’t want to deal with an irritating salesperson I can always beg off, citing that I need to “talk to my husband” and let’s face it, it’s the closest to having my own pair of balls that I’m ever going to get.
That said, I’m never sharing a bathroom with dudes again.
Because I am fucking tired of living with the casual arcs of pee that artfully decorate not only the toilet seat and the floor, but also the wall and bathtub too. While I’m certain that someone might find that to be high art, I’m afraid I just find it irritating and obnoxious because I am the one stuck cleaning it up.
Also, I am the one stuck cleaning up the pube that I found floating in my diet Coke this morning. The pube that was not my own pube. I know that because my own pubes are not 4 inches long and red. If you are forced to have a pube in your drink, it really is preferable that it be your own. But no, it was not.
I suppose the next time–and I know that there will be a next time–I will merely call it dental floss and move the hell on.
Living in condos with boys. Hm.
I officially live in a Sausage Factory.
Every couple who has sex without using condoms is familiar with a nasty phenomenon that occurs post-boning. It’s so commonplace that most people can make jokes about it without many quizzical looks or questions unless, of course, you shout it out in a kids museum, in which case it probably takes on a whole new perverted meaning. But THAT is neither here nor there.
That’s right, The Internet, I’m talking about The Dreaded Wet Spot.
This occurs so frequently to me that I have tried to position myself while having sex on The Daver’s side of the bed. This way, when I make my frantic run of shame to the bathroom immediately post-ejaculation, the residual is left for my loving fiance to sleep atop of.
Because I am a very, very nice person.
I’m not really sure what it is that makes the Wet Spot so damn gross to sleep on. I mean, semen itself isn’t exactly awesome, but it’s also not that sick either. It reminds me a lot of pennies and dishwasher detergent, neither of which are all that grody, and plus, if I’m covered in The Spooge, it means I just got laid, which is always full of The Awesome.
But there is something so fundamentally disgusting about the wet spot that kind of astounds me, who is grossed out by so very little. I’m training to be a nurse, for God’s sake, and it’s not poo or anything. I guess it’s cold, and slimy, and sticky and if you fall asleep on it, you’re kinda stuck to that particular stretch of sheet/mattress, trapped on the sheets until your bedmate chooses to pull you off of it.
IF your bed mate is kind enough to pull you off of that, I suppose I should say.
Well, the moral of the story is that last night, I lost the battle with the Wet Spot to totally destroy all Wet Spots. It was truly a sight to behold. And un-luckily, and the reason I’m writing this post, is because it was centered directly on my side of the bed. My back has the strangest crick in it because I spent most of the night arranging myself into positions that didn’t allow too much of my skin contact with the disgusting puddle I nicknamed Lake Spoogekins.
Normally, when I nickname things, even gross things, like Stinky The Skunk, it’s because I love it so very much and I want to keep it forever and ever in a jar under my bed because I am so full of The Love for it.
Not this time, tho. I would punch that Wet Spot in the fucking face if I could.