I recently queried the latest fads in locating this diaryland. Strangely enough, the one search string used (with an unsettlingly daily occurance) has been "T.H.U.G. glitches". Go ahead, google that one. I am on the first page, along with a pile of other random pages. There is no clear website that is the obvious home to these glitches. I think it has something to do with skateboarding but I really can't be sure. No matter, really. Sweets and I were making ourselves giggle speculating just what thug glitches might be. Like, is it that one thing that makes you cranky? Or, perhaps it's the cast on the broken leg of that really nasty guy you pass on your way to work. Maybe it isn't his broken leg that is the glitch, but the broken baseball bat that he's carrying with him. what is your thug glitch? I think mine is the horrible heartburn I had after enjoying and oversized portion of the general's chicken, purchased for lunch from one of the food carts outside the hospital. If that wasn't a thug glitch, I don't know what is. So, for you random thug searchers, I ask you to take a moment and muse to yourself on just what your thug glitch might be.

Today was the first day of the spring semester. Now, I won't go into the various personalities of all my classmates in case I am one day famous and they would have to re-create a certain scene from Harriet the Spy (the book, not the movie). But I will say for the record that some people in my class would benefit from a certain drug referred to by some as a "chill pill." Dang. Some people can't just hang. Or perhaps they think I am entertained by their constant fretting over courseload and requirements and electives and advisors and publications and research and grant applications. I say to you, no. No, I am not interested in your crap. At least not any more interested than you are interested in my own version of this same pathetic and rather boring story. Get over yourselves.

As today is the first day of class after a month long break, I am finally appropriately wearing maternity garb. I zipped up my muumuu with pride this morning, wondering what sort of response I might get from the classmates. Most people already knew, but I did catch a few double takes. Finally, people can see that I wasn't just crumbling under the pressure of academics, I was crumbling under the pressure of uterus. What a relief. Now I can rush off to the restroom whenever I want, and return to a room full of sympathetic nurses when I'm done. good thing too, because the thug glitch of today made me pretty sick during the longest statistics class in the world.

Continuing in this disorganized thought train, why do they think we would actually enjoy being in a statistics class from 1:30 to 5:00 in the afternoon? The hours known to many as the tiredest part of the day? One break in between, and a not so charismatic man doing the teaching. Just because it's an "advanced" statistics course doesn't mean we WANT to be there. (I put advanced in quotes because we aren't talking about statistics for astrophysics here. it's nursing and it could be a lot worse.) If I wanted to worry about stats, I would have gone to the school of epidemiology.

why do my hands smell like fish? ew.

Well, time to resort to some violence. have a good week, my friends!

Good. You know your music. You should be able to
work at Championship Vinyl with Rob, Dick and
Barry

Do You Know Your Music (Sorry MTV Generation I Doubt You Can Handle This One)
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