Brushes with Death

All right, you lot. As few of you that read this (trying to keep in touch and whatnot), I suppose I could give you a little tidbit. Just a warning, though. Seeing as I've already written out this post once and the server decided it didn't like me, it won't be nearly as detailed as I'd like it to be. My patience is waning, dear readers, and though I'm feeling much better I'm still not up to 100% which I'm sure all of you know would mean a tres interestant post... tough shit.

So, on to the title. My brushes with death (three since the last post) have been chronologically arranged for you here below .. .for interest or blind boredom, they're yours to revel in and live through vicariously. You're welcome.

Firstly, for those of you who aren't familiar with my muy aggressive mommy, let me just outline a few things. I grew up in a home where mommy definitely wore the pants. Rule number one; always ask daddy for the things you want. Rule number two; if you're the daughter of a karate teacher, you inherit the paranoia of a woman whose heard horror stories of women being attacked on campus at night. This being the case, mommy had me enrolled in karate classes early in life. . . I didn't get very far comparatively -one belt down from black- but let's just say I know how to take care of myself. I was walking home from my class that ends at 8:50, across campus and being that I'm my mother's child, I notice the surroundings, and the very distinctly male footfalls just behind me. He followed me for a good ten minutes or so and I kept telling myself that should he touch me, my key would end up in his eye as quick as I could manage it. Well, apparently my fight or flight instinct somehow got mangled and ended up somewhere in between. As soon as I felt a hand on my shoulder, my dorm key (the largest and most lethal-feeling I could fumble for) was buried in the parting of his coat there in the front and firmly implanted into his stomach. Lucky for him he had a little padding to take the brunt of my 'fight.' While grabbing his stomach with one hand and sheilding from another attack with the other he managed to tell me he thought I was one of his friends... silly man. He said that should I have been her, I'd have screamed and offered my purse. Seeing as I don't carry a purse -and have vowed never to do so- I obviously was not the alleged friend and had left him with a bit of a wound. Serves him right. All in all, I was rather glad to wound...er...educate him in the matters of 'stalking' women down the streets of a nighttime campus.

Next on the list would start with a simple cold. . . and the blowing of my nose. Let that be a lesson to you, kiddies. Blow your nose and you'll end up with a motherfucking ear infection. NEVER BLOW YOUR NOSE. That said, it was a week into my ear not unplugging when the pain started. As reluctant as I was to go to the Olin Death (health) Center, I decided to make the trek and save myself some pain later on. After all, that's what doctors are for, am I right? So I get in to the man's examining room and he asks me what's wrong.... well isn't that his fucking job? To know what the hell's wrong with me? So I tell him I have an ear infection and for some reason the first place he looks is right up my motherfucking nose. Now, yes I know the sinuses are connected to nigh on EVERYTHING in your head but being that I'm already disliking being in the damnedable place, shoving that little light up my fucking nose was not the best of ideas. So the brilliant fucking doctor comes up with an hypothesis that I have an ear infection. Absolute genuis.... Needless to say he gave me medications and despite some rather dodgy goobies -of the Army fatigue color- coming from my ears, things are going well.

Last but perhaps most disturbing, today in Anthropology class we were discussing FGM(Female Genital Mutilation... not one of my favorite topics) and the Anthropological ethics question of cultural relativsm vs. human rights. I'm sitting in the very back row, snickering to myself as some idiotic girl is babbling on about how men like the(certified anthropologist) one who wrote the article in our book shouldn't have any say in the matter seeing as he had no clue about what it was like. Now, for some reason I get the morbid curiosity to see what this creature looks like. I glance up from my doodling on my notes and go so absolutely white (yes I'm white anyway, fuck off) that the girl next to me asks me if I'm ok.

Who was it you ask? None other than Satan herself, my ex roommate, the infamous....Jewel McJennettFuck me with a goddamned redwood... she's in my motherfucking anthropology class.

Not only that, but she makes eye contact with me as she's babbling into the microphone and smiles, almost-waves but of course I dodge behind the person in front of me for cover and time to think. Jesus Tapdancing Christ! What the hell was I supposed to do? Well, being that my fight or flight was firmly intact today, I tucked tail and ran from that room when the professor released us faster than a bulimic with the shits.