Even nice girls have anaerobes in their sputum.


As kids, we used to run around the house with dad's pulse oximeter stuck on a finger to see how fast our hearts would go. Quit playing games with my heart (rate) would be what you'd call that. Love, right now, is reserved only for my neighbour and his free wi-fi that gets me download speeds of over fivefriggin'hundred kaybees per second. And the three-way-stop-cock-like-thingy the good doctor uses to drain pericardial fluid in that Downton Abbey episode. And the stupid person who thought I deserved a 44 out of 50 in the surgery test. At least I didn't drudge my Bailey & Love around all day for nothing.

Cul-de-sac.

Cookie, on my nerdy new Clark Kent frames: "Boy, you sure do love making a spectacle of yourself!"

Crooked Owls

The good thing about skipping college is that you start to realize how rusty your pia matter has become after watching too many The Big Bang Theory episodes. Which makes you open up your new oral pathology textbook and look up Rushton bodies and heart shaped radiolucencies and 'saucerizations' of the maxilla. Which, in continuance with the circle of certain doom that you're now in, makes you realize that both your mandibular third molars are partially erupted with some free gingiva overlying the distal cusps too, which essentially puts you at risk of getting a Paradental cyst and going Bazinga and basically, dropping dead.

Which is why I need to make a will. Which is why ya'll need to make your peace with me.