I need to blow off some steam.

It has been a long time since I've posted anything. The latest news is that I now live in Knoxville, TN. If there are any SG fans in the area, contact me.

FYI
When performing chest compressions on someone, it's not uncommon to feel ribs crack. It is, however, a little creepy.

First, some happy news. Friday I went to Athens. John and Heather gave me a place to crash. For dinner, they humored me and my addiction to Taco Stand's cheap and wonderful food. That night, we hung out with LadyL and Bruce at their new house. We tried to play a new board game. However, no matter how much we drank, it was too difficult to make it risque so we gave up. Then we all watched The Beastmaster. That's right, baby. The Beastmaster! The alcohol flowed in and the smartass comments flowed out like the life-sustaining breath of a beautiful (and drunk and beligerent) child. It was magical. Saturday, I attended the wedding of a family friend. The ceremony was short and the reception comfortable. I proved (once again) to my family that I clean up well; I played with my nephews; I also enjoyed the company of friends I haven't seen in a long while. The highlight of the reception was this exchange with my older nephew (6 years old):

-Nephew: (loudly) Uncle [S], I remember the hand sign you taught me.
-Me: [a cold sweat materializes over my entire body]
(externally) What hand sign?
(internally) Jesus H. Christ! What did I teach him?
-Nephew: [thrusts his hand into the air, extends his index and pinkie finger]
ROCK AND ROLL!
-Me: (externally) That's right, buddy. Good job!
(internally) Oh, thank God. That wasn't too bad.

Afterward, I went back to la maison de John and Heather to relax and collect my things before leaving. We hung out for a while. Heather and I discussed her graphic novel in the works. Then LadyL showed up with her baby. I made goofy faces and noises at him which made him coo and giggle. (I might have done the same in response, but that doesn't mean I won't attack and curse you if you bring it up in public.) All too soon, I was forced by normal-life's commitments to make my goodbyes and return home.

***EDIT***
I decided it probably wasn't a good idea to leave the rest of this post open to public consumption.

An Open Letter I Hoped I Never Had Reason To Write

Dear Patient,

I am your medical student. Though I am here to learn, I am still a member of your healthcare team. I study your medical records to better understand you and your situation. I act as your advocate to ensure that you receive the best care we can provide. I keep you and your loved ones informed so that you and those that care about you will feel empowered in the face of potentially overwhelming events. Even when I am under stress and exhausted, I always remind myself to treat you with the simple respect every patient deserves. The point is that I work hard for you, and I ask very little in return.

Please don't masturbate while I'm trying to perform a physical on you. Seriously, that's not cool.

Sincerely,
S

I was hanging out with two friends at the usual bar. We decided on a change of scenery and walked to a place usually frequented by rockers, punks, skinheads and people who would be hipsters if they bought 40-dollar-tshirts and 150-dollar-stressed-jeans. The bar had a pool table and a dart board, and we didn't know anyone there, so it was perfect.

The highlight of the evening was when one of my friends (we'll call her E for now) and I were playing pool against a drunk and very loud skinhead and his buddy. Despite their intoxication, they were good. When they were shooting the 8 ball, we still had one of ours left. E stepped up. She sank our last ball then got ready for the 8 ball. It was a long shot with a bit of an angle. I kept quiet, but inside I was telepathically screaming at her to hit it lightly. LIGHTLY GOD DAMMIT. JUST TAP THE FUCKING THING. Well, one or both of us isn't a telepath. She knocked the shit out of the 8 ball, and she did it perfectly. The 8 ball went down faster than a coked up groupie. People in the bar actually stopped to watch the end of the game. Apparently, the skinhead was a regular and known for being good at pool. E then picked up her stick and threw it down on the table. Understand . . . she didn't toss her stick onto the table. She slammed the damn thing down. The theme of the moment was "BADASS!"

At other points in the evening, the three of us played darts and argued about whether or not Angelina Jolie would have sex with me. Toward then end of the evening, I did a pole dance to "Honky Tonk Woman" while the other girl pretended to asphyxiate me with my belt and fuck me from behind. (No, I don't have any pictures, and I'm pissed about it.)

E will soon be moving to Jacksonville, FL. Before she goes, we'll have to squeeze in at least one more night like this.

I haven't been feeling well lately. Work ended early Friday, so I went home and slept for a few hours. Around 10 PM, I was wide awake. I didn't feel like going to a smoky bar, so I decided to stay in and clean. I'd made some progress, so I decided to reward myself with a cold, refreshing beer. To my disappointment, the beer was not as cold and refreshing as I'd hoped. I contemplated this. I keep beer in the minifridge I've had since college. It has always performed it's duties well, so a single semi-chilled beer was enough to catch my attention. Upon inspection, I found that the fridge door was not making a proper seal. I quickly discovered that the cause was the relatively large accumulation of ice and frost I have chosen to ignore for God-knows-how-long.




I then set my energies to the new task of de-icing the minifridge. I didn't feel like unplugging the fridge and waiting for the ice to melt. I decided to be more proactive. My plan was to chip away the bulk of the ice. One might think, as I did, that this was to be a necessary but banal endeavor. Recognizing that a large quantity of ice was to be removed, I chose my de-icing tool according to my needs . . . specifically, something that could be used to both chop and stab. The beer can is provided for scale.



The plan worked well until it spontaneously didn't.

During one of the "stabbing" sessions, a barrier containing a pressurized gas was breached resulting immediately in a deceptively benign-sounding hissing noise followed very quickly by a pain in my left index finger caused by a freezing burn. In a period of time best measured in parts of seconds, my concern over the state of my fridge and finger was overshadowed by my concern over what industrial chemical was just sprayed into my face.

After washing my face, checking my vision, and determining if my heart was beating appropriately (under the given circumstances) I decided that I probably wasn't going to die. However, I wanted confirmation. I then began to call a series of people (including various level-headed and knowledgeable types) in part to relate the story and in part to get any advice they might have to offer. Everyone seemed to be in agreement on the following:
1. weird shit happens to me
2. I was probably OK.

This, however, wasn't enough for me, so, after a brief internet search on common chemicals used in refridgeration, I called poison control. (I believe in being thorough.)

I am now confident that I'll be fine. However, I'm afraid my fridge is fucked.

Spring break was fun. Nothing too exciting or catastrophic happened. My skin is a bit darker and my hair is several shades lighter. I drank more and read less than I had planned, but I got to hang out with my friends so I can't complain much about how I spent my time. I also learned something important (potentially extremely important) about myself. I cannot accurately guess the age of a female in a swimsuit. I intend to propose legislation that anyone under the age of 18 must wear some kind of external signal that says "hands off." And no, nothing happened.

Leaving for Florida tomorrow with some friends. I've never been on a spring break beach trip. The only problem at this point is that I have a cold. However, I've been sick for 3 days now, so hopefully, I'll recover soon. Wish me a fun and safe trip. I mean that, dammit. I'm tired of bad luck. Surround me in white light, fuckers.

I'm back home on my neurology rotation now. It's all clinic work, which isn't my favorite thing to do, but the hours are nice. I arrive at 8 AM, and I'm out the door at or before 5 PM. I'm not complaining at all about that. Some parts are really interesting. I'm getting to see some really interesting things. The downside is that, like a lot of medical disorders, there is little we can do for some people other than help them hold onto whatever they have (mobility, comfort, autonomy, life) for as long as we can. Over the last two days, I've seen a bit of Alzheimer's and Parkinson's diseases. The experience has been sobering.

I've met many people in positions similar to the ones in which my current patients find themselves. Most were patients. Much fewer in my personal life. Each deals which their experience differently. Some turn to religion. Others rely on drugs. For others, misery has become part of their identity, and they wallow in it. A few deal with it the way most of us wish we could deal with life's simple annoyances . . . they accept what they need to accept and move on. Today, I met one of those people. We did the doctor/patient thing for a while. Then we just shot the shit about random stuff: allergies, sports, jokes, work. I took a little longer than I should have. In truth, I got a bit distracted and behind in my work for a moment which led to me catching some grief from my boss. I'll survive. This guy was cool. He's someone I'd probably buy a beer. I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting month.