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Well, if you really want to know.

These are what I did yesterday afternoon while my roommates were studying for our rheumatology test today.  Occasionally, I would pop my head into Sophie’s room and offer my opinion on such various topics as “what the difference is between a polyarticular and an oligoarticular arthritis” or “why steroids are contraindicated in glomerulonephritis”.

Mostly, though, I spent my time covered in flour with dough all over my hands and feet and notes, which were sitting dutifully on the kitchen table so that I could at least give the impression that I was trying to learn how to tell one vasculitis from another.

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Have you ever considered selling a body part for a piece of meat?

And no people, I do not mean it in the on-your-knees, spread-your-legs, bend-over kind of way.  (Although doesn’t that description sound strikingly like a prostate exam? The inner workings of my subconscious astound me.)

No, no.  What I’m talking about is.  You walk into Whole Foods.  See the price of the leg of lamb you are about to buy.  And then tell the guy behind the counter that you’re pretty sure an even exchange is in order.  One leg for another.  He, of course, refuses because who knows what antibiotics or medications you’re on or whether you’ve been raised cage free or not, and are you even organic? And, well.  The demand for an inorganic human leg of unknown origin or breeding is not so high.  Especially at Whole Foods.

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I wish that all of you could see my room.

It’s in so much disarray that you would faint and then never speak to me again.

You see.  I know I come across as kind of organized.  I post three days a week.  Like clockwork.  (Better than the United States Postal Service, which occasionally is late and occasionally also bangs up your packages enough that they are unrecognizable.  I may be messy.  But a vandal, I am not.  I swear it.)

And I’m usually at least 90% prepared for our exams.  Sometimes.  Except for twice when I was really not prepared.  But do the heart and kidney really matter in the scheme of things?  Don’t you just love existentialism this early in the morning!

But that’s at the expense of my bedroom floor.

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Two days ago, I got chastised for presenting a patient as if they were a story, rather than a case.

The attending I was working with looked at me and said, “There’s a reason why they’re called cases.  Their illness is a mystery that we need to solve.  With everything you tell me, you want to build an argument, layer by layer, towards a certain diagnosis.  Persuade me that what you think is wrong, is actually right.”

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My brother likes to hover while I cook.  He peeks.  He peers.  He squints.  He eyes suspiciously.

Mostly, I think, to make sure I’m not adding any orange vegetables to his food.  Not that I would ever try to sneak a butternut squash into someone’s intestines.  Never.  Not me.  Not once.

Okay.  Maybe once.  (But really, I only do it because I know what’s best.  And if I left it to my mother to feed my siblings enough vitamins and minerals.  Well, let’s just say that the incidence of Rickett’s and scurvy in my family would be so high that you’d think it was an autosomal dominant inherited disease.  With me being the only Bruno left unscathed.)

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Hello my lovely adorable cute delicious readers.  You look good today.

Taller.

Leaner.

Good enough to hang up on my wall and ogle at every morning.  Right next to the current love of my life, one mister Patrick Dempsey.  (McDreamy from Grey’s Anatomy for those of you who do not have estrogen coursing through your veins.)

Now that I’ve freaked you out to the point that you have probably run away screaming. I have a request for you.  Could you pretty pretty please head over to the MarxFoods website and vote for my oven-fried tepin chile chicken and waffles with a juniper-infused pomegranate male syrup?

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