I'm baaaaaaaack.

And feeling a bit more refreshed. I'm all ready to go forth and become the best student nurse ever. Watch me take pulses in a blink of an eye. Look at the skill in which I wield a blood pressure cuff. How dexterious am I with that stethoscope!

Bah.

And my roomate, bless her heart, left the apartment in a wonderful state. Not only does the kitchen smell distinctly of milk left in the sun for days, the bathroom reeks as if some rabid form of squirrel crawled into the vents above the shower and died a horrible death.

We have this deal. She takes out the garbage, and I do the dishes.

Well, that WAS the deal.

Someday soon, oh....someday soon, I am going to throw all her dishes out the window and be done with it. I will defenestrate them with a flourish unknown to any woman before.

Grr. Grr, I say, and shake my fist.

I find shaking my fist usually yeilds better results than the middle finger. I discovered this last summer, during the road rage months. I noticed that while flipping the bird to other drivers made me feel better, the offending driver would scornfully return the gesture every time. However, try shaking your fist at people who cut you off. They stare. They stare dumbfoundedly. They stare like a person who doesn't know what a fist is, nevermind how to shake one.

I simply love it.