March 17th, 2003

Nescafe rabbit

Fear and loathing in Las Vegas...

This weekend did not go well, study-wise. Much like the two weeks before it, I could not dredge up from the depths of my soul the motivation to do more than a cursory twice-through the 100-some-odd pages of notes.
Friday afternoon was a loss, and I don't remember why. I think I was smoking crack or something, else I should remember. I got some notes done and gone through; the first 10 condensed pages of powerpoints - 17 pages of notes, equivalent - but I should've been able to get through all 30 pages of powerpoints.
Saturday morning was Curves, and then church for choirchimes, and then meeting with Dan Holly about house insurance, and then all of a sudden it was 3 PM and I was still waiting to do notes. Saturday night around 11:00 I realised that typing them out was doing me no good at all, considering that I couldn't remember what I had typed 5 minutes before. Resolving to make notecards on the pages I hadn't done, I buried myself in roleplay for a while.
A while became 2 AM. Which meant that all day Sunday (after I got up to go to church and finally forced myself to do something Productive at 3 PM) I was tired. Sleepy, even. And at midnight, I gave up and went to bed.

It showed. Pathology exam score: 60%.
That, my friends, is Bad. Anything below a 70 is bad, to begin with. Anything below a 65 is Bad. It's terrifying how tiny the jumps are. At least it didn't hit the Very Bad range, which is what I hit in Neuro and Anatomy last year. I think my Worst Score Ever is a 54% in Anatomy.

And then I did the math on my spreadsheet (I am such a nerd). To redeem my grade to passing, I need an 82% on the lab exam. My current lab exam average is 80%. So I'm going to have to put in a little extra effort, it seems.
However, if I count my attendance (sterling) and the probable high score on the autopsy report we're doing (almost guaranteed), I'm still passing and all I have to do is continue to pass.
I vote for the 82%. I don't like having to count on little things to save my sorry ass.

Good things (must always think of Good Things to counter the Bad Things):
Was accosted at church on Sunday when I went to go give Jim a hug. "Kiki!" (I don't know why he calls me Kiki. He knows my name.) He's standing next to Jerry. And I say I don't want to interrupt, just giving out hugs. Here, Jerry, you need one too. Hugs were exchanged. Then Jim says, "Nykki can do it." And Jerry looks at him. "Want to sing a duet?" Jim says to me. What? "You can sing at the birthday celebration." What? "Not a duet," Jerry says. "She can sing it."
I'm singing. Next Sunday. "Thank you for giving to the Lord", to be precise. Which, for those of you who don't listen to Christian Pop Songs (neither do I, but this one is a performance favourite), is a 1988 song about the unrecognised consequences of giving with a whole heart. It's as sappy and sentimental as any Christian Adult Contemporary song seems to be required to be, but it is very well written and it makes me cry. The artist is Ray Boltz, who also did "Watch the Lamb" and "The Hammer" and "Awesome God" - in other words, he's very good, as far as Christian Contemporary goes.
Jerry's dropping off the accompaniment today.

Meeting Mom at 5 at Curves today.
Iwona's having a party tonight, because the Polish Dancers are leaving tomorrow. So we get to go to the Dash-In and drink and eat munchies.
Lowene just walked in the door and informed me that lab was cancelled. How awesome is that?
And on that note, I'm leaving.
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Nescafe rabbit


...Keith is a good man and a very good pastor. Yesterday, in his sermon, he told a story that I just had to share. Maybe it's one you've already heard, and I just missed the forward somehow. Goes like this:
I was sitting in my car at a red light, and the woman in front of me bent down to look through some papers in her front seat. She was so engrossed in her search that when the light turned green she didn't move. I was so angry that by the time the light turned red again I was screaming at her and beating my hands on the wheel in frustration. It was then that I heard someone tappingon my window. A police officer, gun drawn, was just outside. "I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car, sir," he said. Blustering that he couldn't arrest me for throwing a fit in my own car, I was nonetheless escorted to the stationhouse. I spent the next few hours there until the officer finally told me I was free to go.
"I told you you couldn't arrest me for throwing a fit in my own car," I said. "You haven't heard the last of me."
"Ah, but that's not what l arrested you for", the man said. "l was behind you at the light, and I saw you throw your fit. And I thought - What a jerk, but there's nothing I can do about it. And then I saw the cross on your rearview mirror, the ''choose life" license plate frame, and the "Jesus Saves" bumper sticker. And I decided you must have stolen the car."
Isn't that great? It's so bloody true!
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    Sweet Home Alabama
Nescafe rabbit

Fifteen times to make a habit...

At least that's what I always learned: You have to repeat something fifteen times before it becomes a habit. And not do it just twice to break it.
Day one: lab cancelled due to lack of relevant things to teach.
Exercised instead of going home to nap.
Status: wide awake, but sweaty. A/C was broken at Curves Getz Road. It's 71° outside, but not yet muggy. Hot. *laughs* Just wait for summer...
  • Current Music
    Wal-mart speaker
Nescafe rabbit

News from France...

An e-mail from my little sister (currently almost 21 years old and studying in Nancy, France, where she's also student-teaching), excerpted:
...I know, incredibly short for me, so I'll add some length by leaving you all with this. No matter what your politic or that of the French, I want to tell you that I like the French. I like their force, their morealy surity that is so similar to our own. I like their certainty that they are correct, that their vision of the world is the proper one. (optimism and self-belief are always important) I like their bread and their cheese. I like that in so many ways they are just like us, only different. I also dislike the French. I dislike the fact that sometimes they do stink... that they dislike my country, that they eat a lot of stinky food. I dislike that the boys wear their pants much tighter than what I am used to looking at or like looking at. I dislike that they aren't half as cute as American boys. I dislike that they can't see how well we could get along. (although I could say the same for us) But it has become a sort of home. So eat your french fries and french kiss. The French don't know what either of those things are anyhow, and they think it's funny that their name is attached. Don't worry about changing the word to Freedom. They don't care.
Isn't she a marvellous writer? Michelly, I love you.
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    impressed impressed