This is a more valid excuse to skip class than staying up on FB.

Here’s the thing… you go to college to learn, to prepare for your future, to learn to be independent, and in some cases, to party.

But here’s what I don’t get… what’s the point of wasting your money away on college if you don’t ever go to class and don’t party either. Usually, people fall on either of the two extremes or find balance in the middle. I can see skipping classes because you party too much. I can see not going to parties because you study a lot. But I don’t see why you would go to college to skip class, hang out in the library, and never go to a party. And guess what? That’s Judy for you.

Today is Thursday, that means that she has one class today. It’s the same way on Tuesdays. This Tuesday was the first time I skipped my nine o’clock class. I was exhausted and couldn’t possibly dragged myself out fo bed. Then I got up, showered, and dressed before Judy even thought about getting out of bed. When her class started at eleven and it was already past ten. Suddenly, the monster arises and asks to watch Boy Meets World until she has to get ready. I say that’s fine and she turns it on. After a few minutes, she turns it off. I assumed to get ready. But no. Instead she grabbed her laptop and sat in her bed. I left the room after eleven. She was still there.

HAH. Now you can match this guy. Yeah, you're cool.

Coming back from my class this morning, I hoped and prayed I would find our door locked. But to no avail. She was passed out in her bed, still. Much after eleven. The best part is how butch she looks. Haha. Sounds mean, but she thinks tie dye is the shit. She has tie dye socks, shirts, and now boxers. Yes, Judy and her friend with questionably short, spiky hair went to Walmart and bought mens tank tops (aka not attractive in the slightest) and boxers then proceeded to tie dye them. Can I again re-state how good I am with gay people? I don’t want to come across as a homophobe. I would just rather people be honest. If you’re gay, SAY SO. I’d like to know that I shouldn’t be changing in front of you. I would also like to stay for the record, the only people other than hippies out in the fields with this love of tie dye is my mom’s good friend from nursing school and her partner. I love love love Annette. She forced alcohol down my mom’s throat quite literally, danced her ass off on the beach to the Steve Miller band, and has the raspiest voice of anyone you’ll ever meet.

THIS is what I foresee in Judy's future.

Wah, there was another bunny trail. I guess that’s why I called this my ramblings? Hah. So I’ll get down to the point.  I can’t stand how Judy acts like I never leave the room or puts me down for my lesser course load (again, due to SURGERY bitch), when she can’t get her lazy ass up for ONE class at eleven. Might I also mention how she can’t even clean up her side?? Clothes are always overflowing from her laundry basket onto the floor, used tissues galore, and random empty bottles crowd her desk. Yes, it’s great you’re going to the gym more. But guess what? That’s not what college is for. Ackk, I am starting a countdown until I move out. Whenever I move out, I’m tempted to give her the link to my blog.

Lesson for the Day: College is for school. Not for sleeping all the time. If you’re gonna go to college and waste it, stop having your parents pay at least. They shouldn’t be going into possible debt to let your lazy ass stay up all night on Facebook and Tumblr.

So sensual, so seductive.

A few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to see a video of this couple from TLC’s “The Virgin Diaries”. (See video HERE)

"And then, you'll take off your robe. And I'll take off mine... and then we'll do foreplay"

Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s great to wait til your married to have sex. However, saving your first kiss, for your wedding day, in front of everyone?! That sounds like a horrible plan. And why is that? Oh, because you will end up looking like them! Appearing completely awkward and uncomfortable as you eat each other’s faces off. No thank you. My first kiss was beyond awkward. The guy was a good three inches shorter than me and thought sitting down would be the best way for our kiss to go well. HAH. Instead it led to me laughing in his face repeatedly, which I blame on my nerves and lack of social skills back in ninth grade. Then when it all finally worked out, he left saying, “Don’t worry, it’ll get better…” Hm, yeah. Wonderous! Haha. Then with my last boyfriend, I stole his first kiss during a viewing of Hannah Montana: The Movie. Again, an awkward experience.

The creepy dad completes the video. "They don't have any idea what they're in for..."

Basically, first kisses suck. So why would someone choose to wait for an audience?! I don’t get it. I don’t really have anything else to say about the matter, but I felt like this video was too hysterical not to share.

Lesson for the Day: Accept that your first kiss will be awkward. But it does get better. Just don’t tell the person that, or they’ll feel like shit. *cough* Thanks, Mustache *cough*

*Mustache is an old nickname for my first boyfriend. If you don’t know me personally, you won’t understand why my ninth grade self came up with the nickname.

"Woe is meeee! I'm going to stayyy depressed"

I’ve only ever had two boyfriends in my life, yet another reason why this break up should be viewed as a good thing. I need to get out and experience a lot of guys so I know what kind of guy I should marry. Anyways, both times my first boyfriend, Mustache (as Rae and I used to call him), and I broke up I clung to Taylor Swift. I have honestly said, “SHE KNOWS MY LIFE!” So embarrassing. So whether madly in “like” or heartbroken, she “knew” me. Then my latest ex and I got together. Again, Taylor Swift came up. Before we dated, I related our friendship to “The Way I Loved You” like I should want him, but I still wanted my douchey ex-boyfriend, the midget man. But then I realized wait, I actually like this guy. And voila! “Mine” was released. Again, she was in tune to me. However, after our last break up when I turned to “The Story of Us” and “Last Kiss”, I realized Taylor Swift isn’t who I should rely on. Yes, she has great songs. But they are all incredibly sappy and mopey and woe is me. That’s not a healthy way to survive a break up. I’m not even going to cover what Mayday Parade songs I would listen to. Mention “All Hail the Heartbreaker” by The Starting Line and you’ll be slitting your wrists in no time. It’s depressing as hell. Therefore, I’m deleting it off of my iTunes.

Gets dumped. Dyes hair blue. Kicks ass. LOVE HER.

So this time around, I’m relying on my idol. Yup, Katy Perry. She released “Part of Me” on Tuesday, though I already had an illegal copy (shhh!). It’s like she knew. Hah. JUST KIDDING! But seriously, Katy Perry just went through a very public break up. This is after professing a storybook romance and dedicated most of her last album to him. Yet, she’s taken it and come out stronger for that. That’s my goal. I keep getting reassured that my choice was the right one, so despite my 24-inspired dream featuring the ex and the sinking feeling I got when I woke up, I’m sticking to my guns. I deserve better. I need better. If he will let me go and not fight to be better for me, then I guess that proves it.

The point of this whole entry is this: Good music can completely change your mood. When you’re upset, listening to depressing music will only make you damn near suicidal. Listen to happy music, fake it til you feel it. That’s why I love Katy Perry’s new song. It’s not sad, it’s just like these are the facts and you can’t destroy me, I’m stronger than this. Hm. I’m tempted to share lyrics… I think I shall. Bear with me, please!

“You took my light, you drained me down. But that was then and this is now. Now look at me.”

“Throw your sticks and your stones, throw your bombs and your blows. But you’re not gonna break my soul. This is the part of me that you’re never gonna ever take away from me, no.”

“Now look at me I’m sparkling, a firework, a dancing flame. You’ll never put me out again. I’m glowin’ oh whoa.”

Again: DO NOT go the Mayday Parade route.

Lesson for the Day: In the words of Mayday Parade, “it’s called break up ’cause it’s broken”. There’s a reason for what you did. So don’t dwell in the pain by listening to sappy love songs or horrendous break up songs. Listen to empowering songs. Songs that say, “HEY! YEAH YOU! You did the right thing.” Then dance your arse off. Forget the pain, focus on the positive. Things will be okay one day.

P.S. This is easier said than done. If I follow my own advice, I’m ruling out 2/3 of my current music library.

Being in a long distance relationship is hard. It is even harder when you’re getting various opinions from everyone around you. That difficulty only increases when your loved one turns distant and irritable.

It sucks.

I have had a rough, hectic, and stressful last few weeks. Thankfully, I have still managed to find ways to spend less time holed up in my room and out socializing. But yet, stress persists. When I get stressed, I rely even more on my loved ones to help calm me down. No, I’m not asking them to take it on themselves or be my therapist. But just by calling and talking to people I love helps tremendously. Lately, that has been less and less my boyfriend and more and more the one friend who I almost completely wrote off last year (please don’t take offense, you know you’re my rock now). When the person you rely on for almost everything becomes distant, it really affects you. My mom always told me I needed to find happiness in myself, by myself. I agreed, but yet I always relied on Paul’s constant reassurance for it. Yet, recently the only time I hear his voice is when I call (and usually he’s not too happy that I did) or when he calls to say he’ll be in an area with little to no service. It hurt. Hearing his voice put an instant smile on my face. Why was I no longer doing that for him?

"OH MY GOODNESS. I can't believe my boyfriend was sweet enough to get me _____"

So then comes Valentine’s Day. Of course, we had been fighting the night before. But still I had hoped for something. Facebook killed me all day as girls posted about their “ahhhmazing” boyfriends and the wonderful gifts they received and boys bragged about how lucky they were to have them as their girl. Finally, I got a text from him. It simply read, “Happy Valentine’s Day. I love you.” And nothing more. I was crushed. This was the guy who wrote me pages and pages of sweet notes when we first started dating, and now this was all I was worth? That’s when it hit me. Things had changed. And not for the better. Still I was hopeful. Due to recent events, I was unable to visit him at his school this weekend, so I called to ask him to go home next weekend to finally meet my puppy. When he finally called back, I was greeted with a cold voice demanding, “WHAT?!” Ouch. It used to be okay to call him. It used to make him happy that I wanted to see him. No longer.

Self-explanatory.

It honestly breaks my heart. But I did what I had to and mustered up the courage to tell him that if things couldn’t change, I couldn’t do this anymore. The worst part of it all? He didn’t say he would change. He didn’t say he would work on things. He didn’t say I was worth fighting for. He hung up and never looked back.

So folks, today, the day after the romantic holiday of the year, I sit alone at my desk and hope for brighter days ahead. Paul’s response proves to me that I was right. Our relationship had changed. I didn’t have the worth I once did to him. Plus, I have felt single ever since my surgery thanks to our lack of communication. I suppose that means I made the right decision.

Lesson for the Day: Be strong. Sometimes making the right choice hurts like a bitch. But in the long run, it will probably be just fine. At least I hope.

HAH. I was never that calm.

I’ve never been great with needles. Back in kindergarten, I was the kid who needed three nurses to hold me down as I squirmed and kicked. Over the years, I realized I could no longer act that way, but still the nervous anticipation always sets me off. I know how it looks… a nineteen year old, sweating with a slight nervous tapping of my feet as I sit and wait. It’s ridiculous! Thankfully, I’m fine with shots now. It’s no big deal. Getting blood drawn? A whole different story. While my recent experiences have been better, I will always remember the two very bad ones. One happened when I was four. I had weird shooting pains through my abdomen in the middle of the night and was taken to the ER. We still don’t know why that happened, all I know is that was the first time I remember having my blood drawn. Not fun. I kicked and screamed and carried on. This was the only memory I had when I had to get it done again in sixth grade. There I was, a ball of nerves, freaking out as I waited. Fortunately for me, I got to hear my then four-year old brother bawling his eyes out from outside the lab. By the time I was in, I was mess. I sat down, and nervously glanced around. No moral support from my mom because she had to tend to my brother. Finally, the nurse turns to me and starts off. The needle is in my skin a full thirty seconds before she goes, “Oh wait… you have a deep vein.” WTF?! Then she proceeded to stab it further into my skin. Then vial after vial after vial was taken from me. Ugh. Not a fan.

Yeah, I was sooo edgy with my cartilage piercing....

Well, see that fear made me very nervous about getting my ears pierced the first time. But I was fine. Due to a story to long to fit in here, I had to get them re-pierced later on. My anxiety set in again. I had been fine in elementary school, yet here I was in middle school thinking it would be something horrific. It wasn’t. I even made it through one of my friends piercing second holes in each in high school. Then a year and a half ago, the edgier side of me wanted to come out by getting a very mainstream and tame cartilage piercing. That thing hurt like a mother. I had barely eaten that day, first mistake. And I had no idea what to expect. I sat there, holding my moms hand, as the lady said, “Okay, now this is the worst part”. Not sure what she was doing, I’m assuming putting the captive ball in, because then right after she said that and sent shooting pain through my ear, I’d hear a faint bouncing shortly followed by, “Ohmygosh, I’m so sorry….” then, “Okay, now this really is the hardest part”. The dropping of the ball, literally, happened at least three times. I started feeling nauseous and light-headed. I swear, had she not gotten it in the fourth time, I would have been gone, knocked out on the floor. My cartilage has been a major bitch this past year, always tender and sore. But apparently, I’m almost in the clear now.

Honestly, this was one of the pictures that sold me on a nose piercing.

Once I graduated from my super conservative Christian school, I decided I wanted to fulfill my life long dream of getting a nose ring. Haha. Just kidding, but I really did want one. Out of respect for my great-grandparents, I waited until after my annual summer visit to see them. Due to the timing, I eventually manned up after getting my epidural cortisone injection. I didn’t know what to expect other than my eyes would water. Oh lordy, did they water. It was a momentary pinch, and voila water works followed by gushing blood! The look on Rae’s face as the needle rested inside was a bit unsettling, but okay. I was done. Later, I watched Judy get her nose pierced. The needle was a tad large. Ick. At least I wouldn’t have to do that again, but wait…

Thanks to my surgery, my nose closed up on me. So this past Friday, I went in with my friend, Georgia, and her boyfriend to get hers done for the first time and mine re-done. The piercer instructed me not to watch Georgia getting hers done, just to be safe. Then when it was my turn, Georgia grabbed my hand with her still sweaty palms, told me it’d be okay, and watched me get mine done. Though I had been nervous about scar tissue left over, the piercer reassured me I would be fine. Still, I was nervous. I was really glad Georgia didn’t choose to stand with her boyfriend and instead sat with me. Slight pinch, and I was done. However, I’d forgotten just how much my eyes had watered last time. It was like I had just finished Steel Magnolias. I was a mess. The ever so kind piercer reassured me that I was looking like her typical costumer, nothing unusual. She cleaned me up and I was ready to go back to the dorm to await the arrival of Paul, my boyfriend.

To be honest, I pictured it like this. I don't like "emo" boys.

Hours and hours passed and finally Paul showed up. Right before we went to bed, he turned to me and said, “I want to get my lip pierced”. You don’t realize how shocking this was to me. Yes, he had adopted much more of the skater look after we had begun dated. Yes, he had considered a tattoo down the line. But every time I mentioned my love of small gages on guys, he shot me down. He even told me not to get my nose pierced, though he liked it afterwards. While not entirely clean cut, he was a virgin to the piercing needle. I dismissed it as just late night thoughts, and was again shocked as he asked me about where I got my nose re-done. He was serious. And not just a stud either, he wanted a lip ring. I was unsure of how I’d like the result and ever so kindly told him so. Yet, he pressed on. Next thing I knew, it was five and we were again where I had been the day before. After much deliberation, he handed the piercer his ID and then we walked back to the room. I could see the fear and nervousness in his eyes, he had absolutely nothing to compare it to. I decided now was time to be the supportive girlfriend he deserved, grabbed his hand, and told him it’d be no big deal. Real quick and painless. He took it like a champ. Yes, afterwards he looked around like, “What did I just do?” But he was fine overall. Last night he felt some pain, and this morning again, he’s started to fear why he has pain. An infection in such a prominent piercing would be horrific. To be completely honest, I thought it’d look stupid. I never could picture him with anything but maybe some small gages. He just didn’t seem like the type. And I mean, I’ve never liked lip rings. But you know what? It’s growing on me. I think the main reason I like it is because he did it all for him. Not anyone else. I can’t wait to see what his parents say when they find out. Six weeks of recovery either means a shock for them or a long time without going home.

Lesson for the Day: Even if you don’t always agree, be supportive. Unless it’s a crime or something intense like that.

Just for funzies, here's my incision with the glue covering still on. Not sure if the lump is visible, but yeah.

Last Wednesday, my surgeon removed the bandage they had put in place after surgery, leaving a grotesquely disgusting glue covered incision mark. As soon as the doctor left the room, I turn to my mom and ask how it looks. She gasps and tries to sputter out some reassurance. Apparently, she expected it to be smaller. Once I got home and was able to inspect for myself, I realized it was the glue that made her gasp. It just looked bad. During my in-depth inspection, I noticed a lump. Instantly, I remembered a quote of of my friends always liked to say, “There was a lump on the back of my neck… Inside the lump…. was my twin.”

Thankfully, it is not my twin. It is either the start of an infection (oh yes please!) or fluids leftover from surgery that will re-absorb into my skin. My entire day today has been spent fixating on this lump. Don’t ask me why, but it really, truly, and deeply disturbs me. I had planned on a scar, I had never considered a lump. So, as I sit here desperately trying to find another class to register for, I am instead consumed with thoughts of what is really happening on my lower back.

Lesson for the Day: When you get surgery, ask for all possible results. Don’t go in unaware like I did.

How do you say goodbye to this face?! (Picture courtesy of one of my wonderful friends)

Yesterday was the big day. I packed up my bags, kissed Bemis on the head, and waved goodbye to my family as I headed back to school, my tiny dorm, communal showers, and Judy. While I assumed starting classes again might be a tad tiring, I didn’t think I would be this stressed out.

Let me explain… When I figured out that I would actually be getting the surgery, I had to e-mail the Dean of Students. Of course, he was non-responsive and left me to figure out the best way to communicate with my professors. Three out of five answered and were a big help, one never deemed me worthy of a response, and one basically said “fuck off”. I chose to drop the last two. The former professor’s class was known to be difficult and missing two weeks could make me fail anyways. The latter was just a conceited prick, making the thought of enduring his class sound less fun than a paper cut in the eye (which I will let you know has happened to be). After I e-mailed my professors, copying the Dean of Students as I did so, was when he reached out to help. I informed him of my dropping two classes and nothing was said.

Fast forward to last night… I’m carrying in bag after bag, random item after random item, all by myself. My parents had been willing to help, but I knew they had enough to do at home and after Judy’s nice text over break about working on being better friends, I assumed I’d have some sort of help. Yes, I did bring a lot of bags. Mostly because all I had were a bunch of tiny bags. Partially because I took way too much stuff home, including my comforter that fit into its own garbage bag. During one of my trips back to my car, I stopped to say hi to one of my friends who happens to be an RA. She tells me how she’s stressed out, and I make a joke about my nine hours. She stops. Apparently, my nine hours keeps me from being a full-time student and therefore, could majorly impact my housing. WTF. Why didn’t anyone feel like mentioning this to me beforehand?! Yes, I knew nine hours was a slacker load. However, it’s not my fault they didn’t want to work with the cripple. Also, my mom and grandma both spent a ton of time telling me I shouldn’t push it due to my recent surgery. I planned to take a CLEP exam to keep up hours anyways, though.

Go to Google Images. Type in stress. Laugh your ass off.

So now, here I sit… waiting on the oh so helpful Dean of Students to reply to my e-mail. Otherwise, I’m showing up at his office tomorrow. Sometimes, it’s really hard to keep my head up and focus on the positives. Guess I’ll start looking for another class. Oh yeah, that requires a late-add form… which involves the mother effin’ DEAN OF STUDENTS.

Oh, and did I mention how Judy took it upon herself to mock me and my nine hours, within probably two hours of me being back in the dorm. Not only did she not help me, the girl who recently had disc material sucked out of her back, but she had to let me know she was better than me because she’s taking seventeen credit hours. Whoop-di-fuckin-dee. Can someone please explain to her that she’s healthyy?! And that unfortunately, I have the back of a seventy year old?!?! All of her bitchiness in the past 24 hours led to a historic event. My mother used the c-word for the very first time. I do believe it was much deserved.

Lesson for the Day: Sometimes life sucks. Just find a bright side. For example, I walked into the lobby to see a list of students in our building who got above a 3.5 GPA last semester. I saw my name, but not Judy’s. HAH.

Yes, I documented everything down to the IV in my drugged out state.

If you have been keeping up with this blog at all, you know that I had back surgery a week ago. Since I came home from the hospital, I have only left the house twice. I’m not agoraphobic, I like getting out of the house. This has pretty much been killing me. Last Monday, I should have been heading back to school. Instead, I would be sitting around the house. I was starting to feel a little bit what you could call “depressed”.

So when I woke up Monday morning to find my parents and younger brother standing over me with a scroll in hand, I was a little confused. Through my blurred vision, I opened the scroll and saw the words “Happy birthday, Mama!” with a picture of an English Bulldog that had been cut out of a  newspaper. I say, “That’s really mean of you.” And turn over. You see, I’ve been asking for a bulldog for years. This past year, I’ve been repeatedly asking for a puppy or to breed our lab (four years old and still not fixed, I know what my mom wants to do with her). Every time, I was laughed away. However, this was no cruel joke. I was going to hop in the car to meet a man halfway to choose between two females, so then on Tuesday morning, my birthday, I would wake up to my new puppy.

Bemis, or Beamy, or Chunky, or Piglet, etc.

Now, I have a lovely little snorting ball of joy named Bemis. She trots around, sniffing everything as she goes. It’s the most adorable thing I have ever seen. I couldn’t be more in love with my little puppy. Loud noises scare her, quieter noises make her tilt her head. I’ll be out front with her cooing, “go peepee poopy” (yes, I am now that person) and a truck will roll by, instantly she turns sideways and bolts to the front door. A once timid dog is now beginning to show her true, more headstrong personality after a week of living with us. She has in turn changed me into the overprotective parent who screams every time any sort of danger comes near her. Our four year old lab, Marley, the attention whore that she is, doesn’t know how to feel about the situation. She was always the baby, and now her flopping and whipping her head around violently is no longer seen as cute but rather a danger for Bemis.

Lesson for the Day: You get back surgery, you get a puppy. Simple as that.

My grippy socks and blood clot preventing mechanism. So sexy.

Okay, well here’s a quick update. Yesterday, I got a micro-endoscopic discectomy. There were more words involved in that title, because the nurses kept asking me what I was getting done and every time I had to pause and think and say discectomy? They didn’t seem to get that at 4 am my brain wasn’t fully functioning, particularly because I was having a mini panic attack about getting an IV and later back surgery. The easy part was how they had to ask me my full name and birth date. I don’t see why they couldn’t just stick with that question. But no, they had to complicate it with big words that my normal brain can’t even comprehend.

I looked like a damn fool with my shaking legs as one nurse inserted the IV as another held my hand. I didn’t ask her to, but I think she sensed that I needed it. I went into surgery at around 5:30 am and in total it took about an hour. A bit longer than he expected because it turns out that I had a lot more herniated disc material than expected. Overall, I’d say the surgery was a major success. My leg pain is gone and the only remaining issue is slight numbness in my foot. That’s to be expected as it’s been numb for six months so it will take some time to return full feeling. The incision is about an inch long, maybe more according to my grandma. The thing that really sucks is the major sore throat I have from the breathing tube. It feels like they were like, “OH SHIT! Almost forgot the breathing tube” as I was on the table and shoved it down as fast as they could. Plus, now I’m randomly coughing things up. Not cool.

See, not big at all.

Now I basically get to lay around for two weeks, with occasional walks around the house to prevent blood clots. I’m not allowed to sit at a 90 degree angle for more than 15-20 minutes, so car rides are out of the question. The worst part is no shower til Monday. I’m hoping dry shampoo can last me til then.

So yeah, that’s all I really have to say about the surgery. I survived. I got a gift basket and a flower arrangement so far, pretty spiffy. I’m feeling special as everyone calls my family for updates. But now, I’m going to return to my lovely couch so that my mom and grandma don’t come home to find me typing this sitting at a 90 degree angle.

Lesson for the Day: If you decide to document your hospital stay, try to look more attractive than I did. I look like a drugged out mental patient in almost all of them.

My dad says I walk like the Hunchback.

I just wanted to give a quick little update on my back situation. My surgery is scheduled for 6 am on Friday, the 13th (dum dum dummmm). Everyone I have talked to or heard from has said that I will be amazed by the instant relief when I wake up from surgery. The only pain I will feel is from the surgery itself. Uh, where were these people six months ago when I chose to go the chiropractic route?! I’m not sure I would have chosen six months of pain and trying over instant relief. The recovery time isn’t long either, the surgeon said I could be ready to go back to school in one week. That’s insane! I can’t wait for the shooting pains from my sciatic nerve to stop and for my gimpy walking to come to an end.

Anyways, today I have to go get blood work done to make sure everything will go smoothly. Yesterday, I got up to date x-rays and an MRI reading. For those of you who haven’t had an MRI, be glad. I’m not very claustrophobic, but that space could make anyone hyperventilate. My first MRI was done this past July. I was completely calm and relaxed as I laid down on the flat board, positioning my ear plugs. As I was sliding in, I made a big mistake. I opened my eyes. The ceiling of the tube was less than the length of my hand from my face, and I have very small hands. Thankfully, the tube opened up more the further in I went. My feet were the only things sticking out into freedom. Although I should’ve relaxed at th fact that there was more space for my face, all I could focus on was how there was absolutely no escape. So the whole time I prayed there wouldn’t be some freakish power outage. But through the soothing sounds of Kiss FM and the tech working, I made it. Luckily that MRI took about five minutes from the moment he took me back til the second I walked out.

Except I was faced the opposite direction. Headfirst, unsure of how far I was in.

Yesterday’s MRI took a lot longer. First of all, I had to wait fifteen minutes when I got there. Then I was walked out to the mobile unit and told it would take 20-25 minutes. In the machine. Uhhhh… what?! I guess the last time I got a stud and this time I got the third string. Also, there was no music offered. Just loud zings, bangs, and crashes. This machine was slightly different. I was only pulled in up to my knees and was told there was another opening near my head, though I couldn’t bend to see it if my life depended on it. The bad thing about this one though, was unlike the other one, the shape of the tube inside didn’t change. from my head to my knees, it was all about a hands’ length from me. No. Way. Out. I managed to stay calm, but then it happened. What always happens when you’re told not to move. My nose started itching. My ear started itching. My cheek started itching. Almost every part of my body needed to be scratched. It was hell. But I made it out alive.

Now I get blood drawn in a few hours. In the past, I would freak out. I’ve gotten better with needles. I’m just hoping they only need one vial and don’t try to drain me. We’ll see how that goes. Until then, I suppose I’ll do what I’ve been doing all week, go watch a movie on the couch only to pass out half way through. My life has gotten significantly duller. Hopefully, my birthday next week will bring some excitement.

Lesson for the Day: MRI’s aren’t fun, at all. But if you take deep breaths and focus elsewhere, you might just make it out alive.