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    your professor says something profoundly funny. you are tempted to laugh but because you failed to brush your teeth this morning all you can do is to manage a closed-mouth smile. what muscle are you primarily using?

    James

    Guys, does anyone know the answer?

    get your professor says something profoundly funny. you are tempted to laugh but because you failed to brush your teeth this morning all you can do is to manage a closed-mouth smile. what muscle are you primarily using? from EN Bilgi.

    Anatomy Quiz 6 Flashcards

    Start studying Anatomy Quiz 6. Learn vocabulary, terms, and more with flashcards, games, and other study tools.

    Anatomy Quiz 6

    66 studiers in the last day

    Which is NOT a characteristic of skeletal muscle tissue?

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    reproducability

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    What is not part of connective tissue?

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    nerve endings

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    1/10 Created by swills2

    Terms in this set (10)

    Which is NOT a characteristic of skeletal muscle tissue?

    reproducability

    What is not part of connective tissue?

    nerve endings

    Your human anatomy professor says something profoundly funny (which happens often) and you are tempted to laugh but because you failed to brush your teeth this morning all you can do is to manage a closed mouth smile. What muscle are you primarily using?

    risorius

    On your way to class you ran over a skunk. The odor was overwhelming and in response you wrinkled your nose in disgust. You have just used your:

    procerus muscle

    Your favorite niece just gave you a closed mouth, pucker kiss. What muscle did she use?

    orbicularis oris

    A motor unit is comprised of a single motor neuron and all the muscle fibers in controls.

    true

    Which glands lack ducts and secrete directly into the bloodstream?

    endocrine

    The erector spinae muscles collectively are used to maintain posture, stand erect, and extend the spine when contracted bilaterally.

    true

    Suppose that you are in human anatomy class paying attention to another riveting and exciting lecture by your professor, when a classmate behind you and to your left sneezes. You are compelled to turn around and see who made this hideous noise, but you do not want to be very obvious so you drop your chin to your chest and just turn your head to sneak a look over your left shoulder. Is it true or false when I say that your left sternocleidomastoid muscle is used in this movement?

    false

    Which abdominal muscle has fibers that run horizontally across the abdomen.

    transverse abdominus

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    The Glass Essay by Anne Carson

    I

    The Glass Essay

    BY ANNE CARSON I

    I can hear little clicks inside my dream.

    Night drips its silver tap

    down the back.

    At 4 A.M. I wake. Thinking

    of the man who left in September. His name was Law.

    My face in the bathroom mirror

    has white streaks down it.

    I rinse the face and return to bed.

    Tomorrow I am going to visit my mother.

    SHE

    She lives on a moor in the north.

    She lives alone.

    Spring opens like a blade there.

    I travel all day on trains and bring a lot of books—

    some for my mother, some for me

    including The Collected Works Of Emily Brontë.

    This is my favourite author.

    Also my main fear, which I mean to confront.

    Whenever I visit my mother

    I feel I am turning into Emily Brontë,

    my lonely life around me like a moor,

    my ungainly body stumping over the mud flats with a look of transformation

    that dies when I come in the kitchen door.

    What meat is it, Emily, we need?

    THREE

    Three silent women at the kitchen table.

    My mother’s kitchen is dark and small but out the window

    there is the moor, paralyzed with ice.

    It extends as far as the eye can see

    over flat miles to a solid unlit white sky.

    Mother and I are chewing lettuce carefully.

    The kitchen wall clock emits a ragged low buzz that jumps

    once a minute over the twelve.

    I have Emily p. 216 propped open on the sugarbowl

    but am covertly watching my mother.

    A thousand questions hit my eyes from the inside.

    My mother is studying her lettuce.

    I turn to p. 217.

    “In my flight through the kitchen I knocked over Hareton

    who was hanging a litter of puppies

    from a chairback in the doorway. . . .”

    It is as if we have all been lowered into an atmosphere of glass.

    Now and then a remark trails through the glass.

    Taxes on the back lot. Not a good melon,

    too early for melons.

    Hairdresser in town found God, closes shop every Tuesday.

    Mice in the teatowel drawer again.

    Little pellets. Chew off

    the corners of the napkins, if they knew

    what paper napkins cost nowadays.

    Rain tonight. Rain tomorrow.

    That volcano in the Philippines at it again. What’s her name

    Anderson died no not Shirley

    the opera singer. Negress.

    Cancer.

    Not eating your garnish, you don’t like pimento?

    Out the window I can see dead leaves ticking over the flatland

    and dregs of snow scarred by pine filth.

    At the middle of the moor

    where the ground goes down into a depression,

    the ice has begun to unclench.

    Black open water comes

    curdling up like anger. My mother speaks suddenly.

    That psychotherapy’s not doing you much good is it?

    You aren’t getting over him.

    My mother has a way of summing things up.

    She never liked Law much

    but she liked the idea of me having a man and getting on with life.

    Well he’s a taker and you’re a giver I hope it works out,

    was all she said after she met him.

    Give and take were just words to me

    at the time. I had not been in love before.

    It was like a wheel rolling downhill.

    But early this morning while mother slept

    and I was downstairs reading the part in Wuthering Heights

    where Heathcliff clings at the lattice in the storm sobbing

    Come in! Come in! to the ghost of his heart’s darling,

    I fell on my knees on the rug and sobbed too.

    She knows how to hang puppies,

    that Emily.

    It isn’t like taking an aspirin you know, I answer feebly.

    Dr. Haw says grief is a long process.

    She frowns. What does it accomplish

    all that raking up the past?

    Oh—I spread my hands—

    I prevail! I look her in the eye.

    She grins. Yes you do.

    WHACHER Whacher,

    Emily’s habitual spelling of this word,

    has caused confusion.

    For example

    in the first line of the poem printed Tell me, whether, is it winter?

    in the Shakespeare Head edition.

    But whacher is what she wrote.

    Whacher is what she was.

    She whached God and humans and moor wind and open night.

    She whached eyes, stars, inside, outside, actual weather.

    She whached the bars of time, which broke.

    She whached the poor core of the world,

    wide open.

    To be a whacher is not a choice.

    There is nowhere to get away from it,

    no ledge to climb up to—like a swimmer

    who walks out of the water at sunset

    shaking the drops off, it just flies open.

    To be a whacher is not in itself sad or happy,

    although she uses these words in her verse

    as she uses the emotions of sexual union in her novel,

    grazing with euphemism the work of whaching.

    But it has no name. It is transparent.

    Sometimes she calls it Thou.

    “Emily is in the parlour brushing the carpet,”

    records Charlotte in 1828.

    Unsociable even at home

    and unable to meet the eyes of strangers when she ventured out,

    Emily made her awkward way

    across days and years whose bareness appalls her biographers.

    This sad stunted life, says one.

    Uninteresting, unremarkable, wracked by disappointment

    and despair, says another.

    She could have been a great navigator if she’d been male,

    suggests a third. Meanwhile

    Source : www.poetryfoundation.org

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    James 9 month ago
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    Guys, does anyone know the answer?

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