My hands still smell like formaldehyde. I left the lab hours ago - this morning we went over all sorts of fun in the abdomen (kidneys and nerves, testicles and arteries), and my hands STILL smell like formaldehyde. I'm sitting here, working on a paper about hypertension in diabetic patients, and what should be done with them. I don't particularly want to be doing so, which is strange - not long ago, I'd have gleefully thrown myself into the tangled web of indications and special circumstances, but now I'd really rather just be reading through environmental pathology. I'm sitting here typing away, and as I reach up to rub the tiredness from my eyes, my hands still smell like formaldehyde.
But you know what? I don't care- I'm probably going to end up as a head-TA next semester, and my hands will ALWAYS smell like formaldehyde. Everyone I touch will know that I love dead people, and the scent of unnaturally preserving chemicals will cling to me like an aura of unholy alchemy; everyone I pass will be reminded of dead and dismembered bodies, sacrificed so that we may learn. There's not enough Old-Spice on this whole damn island. Sorry Nicole.
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