Oh, you guys. Please don't read this.

So last night, I was at this class I'm taking at my old high school. It's math or science or something, I'm not really sure. See, it was the first night and while I was wandering around looking for my classroom, I ran into my old Calculus teacher.

"Hi, Jennie!" he said. I was surprised he remembered my name, mostly because he hardly ever remembered my name when I was actually in his class. I can't really blame him, though. I didn't talk much. That was the semester I took Physics and Calculus and Biology 2 at the same time and so I was pretty miserable. Anyway.

He asked what I was doing and I told him I was taking this class blah blah blah and apparently the class was some sort of medicaly type class because he was all, "oh, are you going to med school?" I thought about how unimpressive my real job is for a minute and replied, "Yes. I'm going to med school." And then he got all excited and started talking about how he always wanted to go to med school and how I'd be a great doctor, yadda yadda yadda.

OK, none of this really happened, right? Because it was a dream. Sorry if I tricked you, SUCKERS. But I have to wonder what part of my brain thinks it'd be a good idea to go to med school. I mean, it's so much work, which I try to avoid at all costs, and also I've been told you have to do stuff to corpses. Not like naughty stuff, but gross stuff. I could barely dissect an earthworm in high school without gagging. And when I took that Biology 2 class, we spent a whole quarter dissecting a fetal pig. The same fetal pig. All quarter.

This is how it went. On the first day, our teacher sat there with a big cooler full of fetal pigs and a list of our names. We stood in line and, as he handed us our pig, he crossed off our name and we took it to our seats. Then he passed out big Ziploc bags with liquid crap inside of it to keep the pigs ripe. We had to write our names on the bag, because heaven forbid you accidentally grab someone else's fetal pig. I think we might have even given our pigs names. So let's say I named my pig Wilbur, because I'm a sick and twisted human being. Every day, I'd have to go to the refrigerator in the corner of the room, pull out poor, Ziploc-bagged Wilbur, and then I'd dissect the shit out of him. You guys. It was the grossest thing I have ever been a part of. Toward the end of the quarter, the entire room reeked of fetal pig juice and WOW, you know, I haven't thought about this in YEARS. I kind of wish I wasn't thinking about it now.

I'm not sure how this post devolved into fetal pig talk. I'm sorry. But these things happen sometimes. Especially around here. Again, I apologize if I ruined your breakfast.