Monday, August 29, 2011


I elected to not listen to the gypsum stone lecture today and consequently had a decision to make. Enrich my mind with some Pathology or sully your mind with an update. Unfortunately for you I don’t make good decisions.

School has been a possessive creature that has deprived me of what I love doing. Writing. In undergrad, it helped relieved stress and probably saved lives. In dental school, I’ve found running to be a great stress relief. That and crying. Nothing quite like purifying one’s soul by alleviating stress through tear ducts. Actually I have never cried in my life. I have seen puppies die, watched Bambi once or twice, unintentionally seen an old man naked at the gym and many other sad, sad things. Never once shed a tear.

One time an old, Asian man stopped me on the street to give me counsel. Typically known to be wise men, I humored him despite my surprise. He described the virtues of crying and how it is an excellent emotional release. He began citing statistical values of how crying is positively correlated with reduced rates of heart attacks, stroke and many other pernicious medical maladies. When he had finished, I mulled over his words as I watched his white beard dance in the wind. I weighed the value of his words for a minute longer then uppercutted him as hard as I could. Silly fool giving me unsolicited advice. Crying is for everyone else. I’m too manly and I won’t apologize.

Anyway, one year down and many thousands of dollars later I can say that I have learned a lot. I still don’t know crap about dentistry though. I’m excited for third year when we start working on live patients. I may cry then.

Friday, February 18, 2011


I'm alive but am among the dead again, Head and Neck Anatomy. It sucks. Formaldehyde is nasty stuff. I have now changed my stance regarding it. It is the chief anti-aphrodisiac.

Mere moments ago I got done sawing a face in half. Only a few more weeks of this class.

Nothing really to report. I'd update to get my mind off school but I've got two tests, a quiz and a competency next week. I used to look forward to Fridays. No longer. Now all it means is the start of a long weekend of studying. I enjoy it though.

Now about the business of nerdery...

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

How Titanic should have ended.

[The scene is where Rose and Leonardo DiCaprio* are floating in the ocean after the ship sunk.]

Leo: Rose, I can’t find the words to tell you how lucky I am to have met you. You probably wouldn’t understand them anyway through my chattering teeth. How’s about sharing a piece of that door?**

Rose: Now Leo, you wouldn’t want me to think you less than a gentleman, would you?

Leo: Certainly not. Hypothermia makes me say silly things. Forgive me.

[Some time elapses]

Leo: Pardon me, Rose, but I’ve been thinking that if we rotate turns on the…

Rose: Chivalry, Leo, chivalry.

[More time elapses]

Leo: I don’t mean to sound like a whiney little girl but my legs are cramping and I think it best I slip onto the door for a bit of a rest.

Rose: My fiancé wouldn’t complain as much as you.

Leo: You mean the guy that took off in the boat without you? You’re right. I’m way out of line for even implying we both live.

[More time elapses. Leo is now so dark blue that any Smurf would think he used a Smurf tanning bed.]

Leo: Chivalry has an expiration date and that was seconds ago. Get lost, tramp. Go find your fiancé or whatever.

Rose: Why I never…

Leo: That’s great. You look like a strong swimmer but try to conserve your energy. The Arctic cold has a way of sapping it quickly. Telegraph me later.

[Cut to a wrinkled old man narrating the story instead of the old lady.]

Interviewer: So you left her there in the water to die?

Leo: No I left her there in the water to swim. I feel like you weren’t listening.

Interviewer: Ummmm…sorry about that. So are you excited to see if we recover the Hope Diamond?

Leo: Is this your first interview? You should consider other employment. Of course I’m excited, junior. I’ll finally get to see the Hope Diamond necklace without Rose’s neck through it. She really wasn’t that attractive you know. Do what you gotta do to get paid, right?

Interviewer: Huh? So let me get this straight. You were only using Rose to get to the Hope Diamond?

Leo: It seems my ability to accurately describe her looks and your interviewing skills are on the same level. Bring in a sketch artist or I’ll throw up on the floor. They would both yield the same product.

Interviewer: Harsh.

Leo: Her looks or my comments? Actually I don’t care how you meant it. I grow weary of you. How’s about you make yourself useful and go fetch me a soda? Rustle yourself up some personality too if you can muster it.

…and blah, blah, blah until the movie ends. I do not remember. I care even less than I remember. Thank you for wasting your time.

*Don’t remember his character’s name and don’t care to expend the few seconds it would take to look it up. Much less time than it would have taken to type this explanation.

**Or whatever item she was selfishly using as a floatation device.

Monday, July 19, 2010

A truncated update.

You have yet to learn your lesson. You find yourself here again. Have your recently evaluated your sanity? Don’t do it now because any amount of time spent introspectively reflecting will cause you to click yourself away from this place. Far, far away from this brain rot. That while I jokingly question your good sense for reading this drivel, I really do value the time you and I spend together here. I offer this post/update as way of appreciation. This offering comes with a recommendation. Prozac is highly favored among prescribing doctors as their preferred selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor (SSRI). If you don’t understand the reason for the recommendation, please see below or any previous entries.*

Let us begin.

FYI, I should be studying for my first test tomorrow. However, I have spent so much time pouring over my notes and books that I long for a boxer to come along and beat my eyes shut so I can no longer look upon them. Then right before I walk into the test I can bravely say to someone named Mick, “Cut me.” I hope the decision to update doesn’t result in me hoping to beat my own eyes shut tomorrow because I didn’t study enough. Me thinks not.

What have I been up to? A racemic mixture of nerding out and dorking out. I just can’t get enough of it, I’m insatiable. It suits me. Why not chase skirts like you used to, Eric? I answer your question with a question then I share an explanatory statement based on my experience. Why have a girlfriend when I have dental school? With dental school, I’m the one that ultimately gets to leave. A welcome change I’m looking forward to experiencing in 4 years. Oh you didn’t get your pity party invite? That’s because I didn’t send them out. Let’s move on.

Day 1

Dissected skin from a cadaver’s thorax and arms. RAD!! Couldn’t ask for a better first day of dental school unless you could cleanse the lab’s air of formaldehyde. That stuff stinks something powerful…at least to me. To the ladies I’ve found it’s quite the contrary. Being wrist deep in a formaldehyde soaked corpse for hours on end is the best way to give off inviting olfactory signals to the ladies. Men, have you been looking for a catalyst that will help your lady friend engage in amorous activities with you? Look no further than your nearest cadaver lab. Optimal results occur from a minimum of 10 hours spent soaking in it. Make it a part of you. Make it your essence. The ladies will soon swarm and will be totally unable to control themselves. Be sure to start packing a rape whistle with you at all times.

Anyone possessing the reasoning power of the spaghetti I just ate should be helped to know I’m kidding. My lab clothes smell like Satan’s breath. Can’t wait to discard those retched things. Gas and match much?

Day 2

Missed a golden opportunity. We were reflecting the pectoralis major and pectoralis minor muscles to access features of the axilla and I dropped the ball. Hard core. If any of you enjoy the movie Willow, you may or may not appreciate this. I thought about unleashing this gem on the way to the lab but completely forgot to do so at the golden moment.

[The scene takes place in the cadaver lab. I, with scalpel in hand, am manning the dissection and am alleviating the pectoralis major of its origin.]

In my best Mad Martigan voice and as I pull back the pectoralis major I say, “Out of the way, pec!”

[…aaaaand scene]

I have a gift for making people sad with my jokes. It’s probably better I didn’t share this particular one. My body may have been on the dissecting table next after my group bludgeoned me with a sock full of pennies. Pray for my group members and those that come in regular contact with me. Pray for tolerance.

Day 3

Dissecting is awesome. The human body is remarkable. How little sheets of tissue are capable of generating awesome amounts of power and also precise movement astounds me. No way our bodies came about by chance by mutations/evolution. A topic for another day perhaps.

Having three days in the lab under my belt brought a disturbing realization. Formaldehyde and the other body preservatives used in the cadaver lab make me hungry. Does that make me weird? I should clarify. It makes me hungry for food. It does not make me consider picking up my cadaver’s limbs and start gnawing on them like a savage.

Skip other days until today.

It is real. I am a real dental student today. I was assigned my first set of instruments. It still blows my mind that one day I will be a doctor. In 4 years, the ladies and I won’t have to pretend to play doctor anymore. It’ll be on for realsies. I'm kidding, mom.

-side note- My roommate is playing FIFA on X-Box and is emitting sounds that suggest his bowels are moving. I think his rectum may have just prolapsed. Poor couch. It’s getting tossed tomorrow.

Who loves terms like septomarginal trabecula, external occipital protuberance, costodiaphragmatic recess? Really? I thought I was the only one. Guess what that makes you? A nerd. Reality is never ordered but always served. Put nerdery in your back pocket and be happy about it.

I have lost my mind. With that realization, I take my leave of you.

*Depression caused from reading this blog is wholly the reader’s financial responsibility to cure. I understand my life is like a car wreck that you just can’t look away from but that doesn’t mean you should laugh at me. No, check that. Yes it does. I laugh at my life and invite you to do the same every time I update.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

A made man.

“Hey you! You in the glasses! Come here! I need your four eyes to keep watch.”

Realizing the mobster was speaking to me, I pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose to their rightful spot and puffed my chest hoping to add a few years worth of growth to my meager 14 year old frame.

“What’s the action?” I asked eager to begin my life of crime.

“Kids are still saying that these days? Unoriginal B's,” he mumbled.

“Yessir!” I replied misconstruing it as a compliment. Mobsters swear amongst each other by way of showing respect. Being called an illegitimate child was a high form of praise. I couldn’t believe I was already gaining respect within moments of meeting this guy. I wonder if he was a made man. I surely would be in a few short months if I continued to garner respect at this rate.*

“You ever picked a lock, kid?”

“Yes I had to choose a lock for my high school locker last week. The store had a wide variety but I think I made an excellent decision.”

“I thought nerdy looking kids were supposed to be smart.”

“If you saw the lock I selected from amongst the myriad that were displayed, you would call me a genius.”

“Whatever you say, kid. What I meant was have you ever opened a lock without a key? I was going to have you play lookout for me but I can’t seem to jimmy this lock. My fat fingers disallow the dexterity needed. Too much pasta I suppose.”

“Why would you need me to look out if it’s your place? Why don’t you have a key, mister? This would be much easier with a key.”

“I…uhhh…musta lost my keys cause I can’t find them in my pockets. I need you to watch for my friend that’s coming to pick me up.
Be a good boy and help me out? There’s a shiny fifty cent piece in it for you."

"Sure thing, mister. Why do you have gloves on?"

"Scars. Hands don't play well with fire. Oh and make sure my friend doesn’t enter my house. He abhors hygiene and I don’t want him touching anything. The neighbors don’t like kids yelling so once I get in whistle if you see him or anyone else coming.”

As one prone to losing things I could commiserate and understand his predicament. This man looked downtrodden so who was I to add to his misery? He seemed like a good dude so I accepted even though a fifty cent piece was essentially worthless. Vending machines and arcade games don’t accept fifty cent pieces. I guess I could always get it converted to 2 quarters at a bank or convenience store. Whatever it took to impress the guy. I also didn’t want to let my fellow gangster down. We gangsters have to stick together.

My nimble fingers quickly familiarized themselves with the tools he provided as well as the inner workings of the lock’s tumblers. Mere seconds later a simple twist of the wrist sprung the lock.

“A natural, huh? That could come in handy. Wait here,” he whispered as he vanished into the darkened interior of the dilapidated building.

I took a seat on the stoop and entertained thoughts of where I would live when I became a made man. Surely not in a dilapidated rat hole like this. The wooden door was sufficiently warped so as to not fully conceal the interior from the elements when it closed. A drafty house was something I’d grown up with but never became accustomed to. As a gangster, these and other manifestations of being poor would be recalled and recounted with humor over lobster and champagne. I didn’t know what champagne tasted like or what it really was but I’d heard that’s what wealthy people drank and so I imagined it was good. Lobsters the size of small children and rivers of champagne filled my thoughts until I heard a commotion upstairs. Clumsy B must have tripped over something in the dark. The thought that I’d just referred to him as a clumsy B made me feel tough. I was starting to think and swear like a gangster. What kind of gun would I carry? A Dirty Harry .45 revolver or an easily concealed Derringer? Both? Why not? The right to bear arms is plural, right?

While I was practicing drawing my imaginary guns, a man rounded the corner and was headed toward me. In my excitement of becoming a gangster, I forgot to tell the man upstairs I didn’t know how to whistle. That didn’t stop me from trying feverishly as the man continued my way like I had a tractor beam on him. The man looked me square in the eyes, chuckled and asked, “You playing an imaginary trumpet or having a seizure?”

“Don't act like you've never set off a loser alert before,” I retorted while relishing my new found gangster parlance.

“Big words for a pipsqueak. Why don’t you get off my steps and run along before I clobber you,” he said as he rustled my hair.

“Sorry Charlie but you don’t live here and I can’t let you in. You’re unclean. The guy upstairs said to keep you out.” Had I my guns, I’d be poking deep dimples in his fat belly with the gun barrels to strengthen my words.

“You can’t let me in? You?” he asked as he grabbed his belly and laughed with all his might. His mirth annoyed me. I have been referred to as many things but never a punch line. This would not do.

“Glad to hear you at least cleaned the dirt out of your ears so you can hear me. Why don’t you run up the street and get us a couple doughnuts. I know you’re hungry. Better yet why don’t you run in place for a minute cause you look like you sweat doughnuts, ya portly B.” I am definitely going to be a made man in a couple months, listen to me. I sound like I’ve been doing it for decades. Guys like me make moves. We ascend quickly. Surely this man was as convinced as I was. I swore appropriately and respectfully. No doubt he would tell the boss to promote me past levels usually reserved for peons. No grunt work for me. No sir.

SLAP!! Riiiiiiiinnnnnnnng. What in the world was that ringing and what made that noise. When did I learn to fly? My brain was incapable of processing or answering the questions for a few seconds.

I looked around from atop a summit of garbage bags. How did I get here? Where were my glasses? I looked up and saw the rotund man standing on the stairs yelling something in my direction. I knew he was yelling from seeing the protruding veins in his neck and the spittle flying out of his mouth but I heard nothing. Nothing but constant ringing. Did I just get pimp slapped off some stairs?

To be continued…but probably not.

*Clearly the extent of my knowledge of gangstering was nominal.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Reflections regarding an immaculately grown mustache that I murdered by shaving it off.

My mustache drove men to anger and caused women to fear for their purity.

Oh how I miss thee, dear friend.

This happens more than I'll ever admit.

Me: You’re really starting to agitate me. Why don’t you sit down and have a Coke and a smile.
Person: I don’t drink Coke.
Me: It’s of no consequence. What I was politely inferring was you hushing your mouth so do that now please.
Person: You’re impolite.
Me: A very astute observation. Do you find the keen sense useful?
Person: Quite.
Me: Observe this then, my son. [index finger pressed to lips in a shushing gesture] How do you feel about that?
Person: Not good.
Me: The desired outcome was achieved.
Person: Why do you do that?
Me: I do it out of love.
Person: I don’t get it.
Me: Not surprising.
Person: What’s happening here? Why are you having a fictional conversation with yourself?
Me: With the realization that I’m talking to myself, does responding to my questions make me crazy?
Person: You’ve knowingly been doing that this whole time.
Me: You are a very smart man.
Person: I am you and you are me. So thank you/me and you're/I'm welcome..
Me: Fascinating. I must confess you are a very handsome man.
Person: Funny I was just about to say the same thing.
Me: Then you most assuredly were going to comment about my manly pecs.
Person: I felt it requisite, yes.
Me: You, sir, are a specimen.
Person: Ditto.
Me: Did you just say ditto?
Person: Well I typed it but whatever. Semantics.
Me: The word ditto I cannot abide.
Person: It seems we’ve encountered a crossroad.
Me: Indeed. What gambit are you considering?
Person: I don’t feel it essential to divulge the details.
Me: Withholding now are we?
Person: It would seem as much.
Me: Stalemate?
Person: You concede so quickly and with minimal force applied. You remind me of a Frenchman I once knew. You know it’s really not much fun making fun of you when you are me.
Me: Agreed but think of the children. Not like the late Michael Jackson but like the collectors of children Angelina Jolie or Madonna would. Lovingly.
Person: Interesting suggestion. Normally at this point I would remind my opponent that he should not forget who is the better and that he ought to graciously bow out before I destroy him. Seeing as though you are my equal, I am on unfamiliar ground. A draw is equivalent to a loss so that can’t happen. What shall I/we do?

…to be continued…or not…we shall see…you don’t care…I don’t care…ellipsis…