This meltdown

I finally had a huge bloody meltdown of galactic proportions about this ANCC exam.  The precursor to this was taking their overwhelmingly ridiculous, maddeningly poorly worded and designed practice test. Several typos. More grammatical errors than I care to recall.  And one of the 25 actually had two correct answers, I confirmed this in several places.  I got into such a state that I started second guessing every answer I chose.  The degree of that much wutdefuckitude, especially when my livelihood depends on such a monumental, blazing turd in test form.
I actually broke down in furious bottomless tears by the end of it, and then started reviewing with such fervor that my very patient boyfriend had to physically wrestle my study materials away from me when it came time to put it all away and wind down for the night.  I have developed such a frothing, lathered panic about passing this exam the first time I take it, that I'm beginning to worry about my ability to competently sit for it without losing my shit.  I have always been a great test taker, these bitches never got to me, but right now I must be in something of a vulnerable state and projecting or some Freudian shit, because I'm so petrified that I'll be told I'm incompetent by this evil little pop quiz that I'm letting it get into my head.

This test

I have the ANCC exam scheduled for this. Fucking. Sunday. I'm studying so hard a fine steam vapor has taken to coming out of my ears in a regular stream.  Synapses, overtaxed and underpaid, have begun protesting and picketing, demanding shorter hours and more sugar for myelin sheaths. Arg. I have dates and statutes and treatment modalities and mechanisms of action sparkling in my peripheral vision at all times.  I'm quite glad this counts as CME credits at the end of the day, because owch.  But, it will be worth it to make myself that much more marketable.  I have to admit it pisses me off that this exam is considered a valid test of proficiency and competence.  Poorly worded questions designed to be misleading, I wouldn't even use that phrase to describe the SAT's.

This temptation

"Sesame Donuts, bitches."  That's all my coworker said as he walked into the big meeting room and thunked down not one but two brimming boxes full of what I refer to as The White Death, right in front of me.  "I couldn't let you leave us on a sour note, after all."  Now in fairness, I have never ever turned down treats he's brought in in the past.  But this, this was my first real impromptu temptation since I began this saga of crankiness and glycemic indexes.  My eyes widened as I took in the cornucopia, veritably sparkling with confectioners sugar and glaze.  I don't really care much about sweets typically, but Sesame, well, that's a whole other kettle of horses of a different color.  I started babbling. "B-but, 19 p-pounds, almost 20...the points... the POINTS!"  Luckily one or two coworkers knew I was dieting and patted my shoulder as I slurped my tea to steady my nerves and to give myself a moment to think: Just this morning I had seen yet another week of adipose cells crying out as they languished away, almost 2 lbs worth of languishing in all.  I have been working HARD for this shit.  But I becalmed myself enough to realize that no, really,  you don't have to live in black and whites, one either full of donuts or none at all, I mean, come on man, pull it together, you live in the middle in ALL other things in your life, many that are way harder.  Gender, sexuality, prescribing practices, I am medial and flexible and adaptable in almost all areas and domains, so fuck this donut.  And fuck deprivation.  Moderation is harder, but sweeter when you make it your bitch.  That's right, say it with me: Respect the cruller, and TAME THE DONUT.  Thank you Joss, for your wisdom in this matter.  I tore a chocolate glazed into quarters and took one of them, amid jeers and misplaced encouragements to "just have the whole donut for the love of Pete, it's your last week here Jake!"  At first I expected to get pissed about that, but a strange serenity came over me.  I turned and held up the small serving of deliciousness, pointed to my shrinking gut and replied, "19 pounds, my babies. And THAT is how you do that."

This chemical journey

I have officially been deemed unsuccessful at my current dose of Hormone Fueled Emotional Lability.  My crotch doctor tested my iron levels (low, but I ain't dying just yet) and next week I begin a HNL of hormone therapy.  Apparently my mighty ovaries simply can't be beaten into complacence by the low dose shit.  I've been leaking hemoglobins for about 2 weeks solid at this point, and you know what? I have to admit that the luster has begun to wear thin.  I just can't get as excited as I was when this chemical journal began to enjoy fully the constant cramping, craving for meat to replenish my rapidly tanking hematocrit levels, and the constant feeling of always and forever needing a shower. They just don't make water, um, watery enough to make you feel clean during this level of rampant utero-spasm.

This transition

This is officially the last week at the toxic cesspool that constitutes my old job.  I've been just about conscripted to come in once a week to take care of things as best I can, on the weekend, for about 8 hrs, for a ridiculous amount of money.  It'll pay for COBRA at least.  I'm excited beyond all reason to get the fuck out of Dodge.

In a bizarre twist of fate, I'll be sitting for the ANCC exam the day before I start work at the new digs.  No pressure.  I have a lusty, spirited hatred for this exam and the entire process therein which transcends my ability to express it.  Never have I felt so thoroughly, professionally insulted in every way.  This level of hoop jumping should be reserved for skateboarding.