Netter’s Anatomy Flash Cards

I’m flicking through the anatomy flashcards I bought for $15 from a used book store in Fitzroy while listening to fellow commuters as they perform their respective, externally branching conversations. “She dressed up as the Wilco album cover… wasn’t it 1992?” Another man describes his self-deprecating thoughts over the phone, “…incoming car when I stepped onto the road then thought, ‘should I move?’ Too dark?” I smiled, might’ve laughed. The skin on the back of the neck receives innervation from the dorsal rami of cervical nerves.

Later, I’m trying to convince myself I’m fine missing out on Lamb of God’s sold out show tonight, making the mistake of listening to Omerta while scrubbing dishes. I get pretty fired up while washing dishes to begin with, it’s where my greatest arguments have seen victory. I had tickets (back when you could hold them) to see Lamb of God back in 2013 when they toured with Meshuggah and didn’t attend; no idea why. I’m squishing the Scrub Daddy’s little smile ‘til he grimaces uncomfortably and realise: this is how I’m really feeling. After draining the sink, a God-thing happens. I search up an event post from weeks ago on Northcote Theatre’s Instagram and notice someone commented two hours prior regarding a ticket; a response from the venue with a time stamp of eleven minutes ago states there are 40 tickets available at the door and to get in early.

Now I’m in the uber with wet hair and dry hands refreshing a third-party ticket sale site, just in case. The radio’s programmed to a religious channel. “You’re listening to 89.9 TheLight, if you’re tuned in to this station, you live in the Light of God, give the blind the gift of sight - we need fifteen more doners… here’s a song by Ed Sheeran.” “DAMN IT!—Sorry!” For blaspheming. I’d just missed a ticket. Sold 5 mins ago to Saif. The line’s around the block at the theatre, long. I sit across the road alone, biting my lip while clicking refresh over and over, attempting to breathe in a way that indicates I’m not actually alone. All of the intercostal muscles keep the intercostal spaces rigid, preventing them from bulging out during expiration and being drawn in during inspiration. A bird above makes a disturbing sound, I can’t see it for the tree foliage. In a bold move, I stand in line with everybody else and hit refresh on my dimmed phone screen, eventually telling the guy behind me my deal. He shakes his head like I’ve got no chance in hell, and so does the person in front of us.
We’re slowly herding forward when I notice the international signal of a well-connected person; a wire dangling from the ear of a well-postured man. I launch from my station to ask whether there are still tickets at the door and he pulls the dangly thing from his ear—breaking the code, becoming disconnected. He asks why I didn’t simply bypass the entire line to head inside and buy a ticket. Absurd. I’d have to have hubris. Heart sounds (lub-dub) occur from the closing of the valves. Making no eye-contact, I patrol past three sides of a cube of people to ask the security guard ushering people inside if I can head in to buy a ticket. “Go ahead.” The desk attendant says, “You’re all good,” I have to remind him that I haven’t paid yet.

Inside the venue, the sceptics from the line remember me, approach and attempt to embrace me, as if my being one of them has been authenticated by entry. Nodding them away, I move toward the stage then lick my finger to pull a pill from the prescription bottle of Propranolol in my purse. A guy beside me says, “Don’t make fun of my beer, I lost my prescription bottle of meds,” I look at the beer, it’s just a Jack Daniels; I don’t understand. My confusion speaks for itself, spread across my face. He adds, “My prescription bottle of Valium…” then says, “if I start getting dozy you can drag me some place and have your way with me.” The skin on the back of the scalp receives cutaneous innervation from the greater occipital nerve (dorsal ramus of C2). He thinks I’ve stolen his meds. “I want to see the show.” I turn away and consider pulling out my bottle—popping a few to make him feel like a cuck watching his drugs melt against my tongue. I’m bored by his approach, opt not to set things straight. A wet force strikes my shoulder from his direction. The Mylohyoid nerves help depress the mandible or open the mouth. They are active in mastication, swallowing, sucking and blowing.