A public rant

I am so angry today. Why? Because people need to learn to mind their own damn business. Let me explain.

I started my one-week ophthalmology rotation today. Taking advantage of the situation, I asked the attending a question about an eye condition that a friend of mine had experienced for which they were unable to find a diagnosis. He went through a list of things that they could look into and then stops and says, "I mean, I don't like to give unsolicited advice or anything, but you should think about thyroid levels." I told him that I thought that she had already had her thyroid levels checked and that they were normal when he interrupted me and said, "No, not for her...for you." Okay, asshole.

For those of you not in the medical field, I will give you a quick background on why this makes me upset. He wanted me to check and make sure that I don't have hyperthyroidism. Now, there is a condition called Graves Disease which is a common cause of hyperthyroidism, but it isn't the only cause. The three things that differentiate this type of hyperthyroidism from run-of-the-mill hyperthyroidism are lid lag, pretibial myxedema, and exophthalmos. Lid lag means that when you look down, your upper eyelid doesn't follow your gaze like it is supposed to. Pretibial myxedema is puffiness of the shins of the legs to where it looks like your legs are orange peels. And exophthalmos, the bane of my existence, is when your eyes bulge out of your head because of increased amounts of fat behind the eye pushing it forward.

This is the THIRD TIME that a doctor that I have worked with has told me that I should get my thyroid levels checked because of my eyes. Because these idiots apparently don't know what real Graves Disease looks like, I have shared three examples with you above. Notice how the eyes bulge out of the head and creepily look like their staring at you intently. Now look at the last picture. This is a picture of my eyes. Note how beautiful and green they are. Note how they may be larger appearing than the average person's eyes, however they do not stick out of my head or creep you out. They are "Little Mermaid-esque" and special.

I have spent almost 4 years of my life in medical school. Don't you think I would've realized that something were seriously wrong with my eyes and have gotten it checked out by myself?! No! Because there is nothing wrong with my eyes! Please refrain from chasing me down the hallway to so graciously ask me to get my thyroid levels checked because you are worried about me.

Now if I could only think of an excellent comeback for these morons who feel it their business to point out my large eyes to me. I'm thinking, "No, I haven't gotten my thyroid levels checked. But have you gotten your mouth checked? As we've been sitting here talking, I've been growing more and more concerned that it has turned into an asshole." What do you think?

Help me with my personal statement!

So, this is a selfish post. I finished writing my personal statement for residency and I would like some feedback. I need to turn it in within the next week or so, so any help you could give me before then would be awesome!

It was the last night of my surgical sub-internship and my team was scheduled to be on call. Although I was expected to drop off my pager and parking card in the afternoon, I wanted to stay for the full night. It was a Friday and I looked forward to witnessing at least a few more interesting trauma cases before my rotation was finished.
The day had gone by slowly for a weekend and I was sitting with the interns in the surgery lounge eating dinner and watching the Minnesota Twins game. Earlier in the day, I was able to use my limited Spanish to communicate with a patient about his abdominal pain, and by this time our attending, chief resident, and PGY2 were in the OR removing his gallbladder. The trauma pager went off and I glanced down to look at the all important number after the dash. If it was a one, you had to drop everything and run to the emergency room. A two meant that while you still needed to reach the emergency room quickly, the patient was stable enough that you didn’t need to run. It was a one. My dinner would have to wait.
I ran down the hallway towards the elevators leading to the emergency room and on my way past the OR, I met the PGY2. We had to hurry. He had heard word about this patient earlier and things didn’t look good. Although I never would wish significant injury on another person, it made me excited to learn that this promised to be one of those interesting trauma cases that I had stayed to see. I secretly wondered if there was something wrong with me for wishing that this patient would be akin to the frantic resuscitations that seemed to only be on television.
When we reached the trauma bay, the paramedics were wheeling her in and sliding her off of their stretcher. Weaving in between the numerous people in the room, I grabbed a trauma history and physical form and slid it onto a clipboard. It was my job to record all information that I could obtain about this patient. I strained to hear the paramedics as they shouted the details. Unknown female involved in a motor vehicle accident. Driver t-boned on her side of the car by a delivery truck. Prolonged extraction. Lost consciousness at the scene. Estimated age of 21. Attempts had been made to locate her family.
I turned back to the table where the residents were working diligently to obtain intravenous access. They had already cut off her lime bikini and shorts which were thrown in a heap in the corner of the room. I was taken aback by how young she appeared. Her strawberry blonde hair sticky with blood, mottled purple body, she couldn’t have been a day over 18. I got closer to the action and started to scribe. GCS of three. Pupils fixed and dilated. Open comminuted fracture of the left humerus. Positive FAST exam for blood in Morrison’s pouch. As I was writing, I could hear the beeping of the monitor start to slow. Her heart rate was dropping rapidly until it finally stopped. It all happened so quickly. My mind was telling me that the doctors on Grey’s Anatomy would’ve tried to shock her heart at this point, but we all knew that this was simply television magic because you can’t shock asystole. Before I knew it, the chief resident of the emergency department had cracked her chest open. Blood gushed onto the floor. Each time he forcefully pumped her heart, more blood added to the growing puddle. Within seconds, her heart was beating on its own again. We got in touch with our attending upstairs and told him that we were on our way up. There wasn’t much time to stop her from bleeding to death.
The PGY2 firmly held a cross-clamp on her descending aorta as we took the elevators to the fourth floor and wheeled our still unnamed patient to the OR. We helped slide her onto the bed and the nurses took over in preparing her for surgery while the PGY2 still compressed the aorta to attempt to direct blood flow to her vital organs. The attending and chief resident had finished the lap chole just as we had arrived and they joined me in scrubbing. After putting on my gown and gloves, I grabbed the cross-clamp from my resident so that he could leave the room to scrub. This patient was prepped and draped faster than any other patient that I had seen and we were ready.
A midline incision was made in her abdomen and once the peritoneum was entered we all expected to see a pool of blood. There was nothing. No fluid anywhere. I stood on my tiptoes to see for myself. How could that be? Her FAST exam was positive and her abdomen was distended. They fished around to check for bleeding. The spleen was intact. No liver lacerations. Once we were satisfied that her abdomen was benign, attention was drawn to her thoracic cavity.
With every beat of her heart, more blood was being forced onto the floor. She was still exsanguinating. The chief and PGY2 focused on closing her abdomen while the attending slid his hand through the thoracotomy incision in attempt to identify her source of bleeding. I asked him to check and see if I still had the clamp in the proper position because I was too nervous to put my hand in uncharted territories and check for myself. I watched in awe, and with a hint of jealousy, as my attending ran his fingers along her aorta and heart. He had pushed her lung up slightly and I noticed an extensive laceration of her lower lobe that seemed to be contributing to her bleeding. Since he could feel no other lesions, it was presumed that this was the source of the enlarging puddle on the floor and it was decided to place a chest tube, close her up, and hope for the best. He asked for a knife and placed it in my hand. Really? You wanted me to put in the chest tube? Nobody had ever let me do that before. I reached for the knife with hesitancy and listened closely as he told me where to place the incision. With surprisingly stable hands, I used the scalpel to nick her skin. Then I used a Kelly to spread the muscle between her ribs. I had no idea how difficult it would actually be to enter her thoracic cavity. After much effort, I finally succeeded and he handed me the chest tube so that I could pull it through the incision.
This whole time that we were so focused on our unknown female’s thorax and abdomen, the neurosurgeons were on the other side of the table attempting to assess her head injuries. Although we weren’t able to take her to the CT scanner before this point, we all had strong suspicions at this point that her head injury was the most significant injury that she had sustained. Just as I was stitching the chest tube into place, the neurosurgery attending peaked his head above the drape and announced that he had inserted a ventriculostomy. All that was returning was frank blood. She was still fixed and dilated. Things didn’t look good.
Although the surgical attending took a step back from the table, I wasn’t one to be defeated. I continued to stitch as if my placement of the chest tube would save this poor girl’s life. I was extremely focused on my work, but I could faintly hear the attendings discussing if we were ready to give up. The neurosurgery attending was convinced that she had herniated. My surgery attending was convinced that she had lost too much blood and although the anesthesia team was running blood and saline wide open, he just didn’t think it would be enough. Almost on cue, her heart started to slow again. Her blood pressure continued to drop. Everyone stepped back from the table and although all I could think of was how much I wanted to stick my hand in her chest and pump her heart for her again, I took cue from the others and stepped back as well. That was it. We took a few seconds convincing one another that we did all we could. Right? What else was there to do? The time of death was called and we slowly removed the drape. Her chest was closed and we wrapped her mangled arm in an ace wrap as last efforts at restoring some of her dignity. We all stood in the operating room a little bit longer without saying a word. Still covered in our blood-soaked gowns, we weren’t ready to disrobe and admit that we were done. Finally, one by one the gowns came off and were thrown into the trash. The residents helped the nurses slide her into a body bag while I stood back and watched. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to be a part of that piece of the case.
As we walked out of the room, someone told us that her family was in the waiting room. I was invited to accompany the attending and chief resident as they informed the family of the passing of one of their members. As we entered the waiting room, five adults eagerly glanced up at us waiting for good news as they continued to wipe the tears from their cheeks. I made a point of keeping a close eye on how the attending and chief resident acted. I had never been in this situation before and didn’t really know how to handle myself. Was I allowed to cry with them? Was it okay if I wanted to hug them? Although these were the thoughts running through my mind, I had to follow the cues of my superiors to see what was acceptable. It was at this point that we heard the real story.
The whole family had been driving to the cabin for the weekend. The boys were in the front car and the girls were in the back car. The mom had let the daughter drive. As they set off down the road, the boys drove over a hill and kept their eye on the rearview mirror to make sure that the girls were still following. They couldn’t see them but figured that the girls had just gotten slowed down by a traffic light. After a minute had passed and the girls still had not appeared, the boys turned their car around and happened upon the accident. The father told us that the car was barely recognizable. They had all been there, including the sisters who had been able to exit the car on their own, as the mother and daughter were extracted from the car.
The attending seemed somewhat comforted by the fact that they were aware of how serious the injuries had been. But as I looked into their eyes, it was clear that they still held out hope that she would be fine and it would only be a matter of minutes before we took them to the PACU to see her. The hospital course was shared with the family, from her heart stopping and the ER thoracotomy to the lack of abdominal injury to the discovery of blood within her brain. It was finally announced that we had done all that we could but unfortunately she couldn’t overcome her injuries. The hope that the family so dearly held had been shattered. They seemed to be collectively holding their breath until word that she was okay, but with hearing of her passing, they all burst into tears. I wanted to cry. I needed to cry. But I looked at the attending and chief who were dry-eyed. I tried my best to hold it in, but a few tears rolled down my cheeks. The family was informed that once the nurses had finished cleaning her up, the family would be escorted to see her if they desired. Once again, we expressed that we were sorry, and we got up and exited the room. Although probably inappropriate, I thanked the attending for allowing me to experience a part of medicine that medical students rarely had the opportunity to see. I needed to let him know that I was glad that I he treated me as part of the team from start to finish. He headed back to his call room and I went back to the lounge to finish my cold dinner.
I sat down on the couch and it hit me. I wouldn’t be happy in any other field. I always knew that I wanted to be a surgeon, but it seemed that everyone who knew my choice tried to discourage me. Why would you put yourself through that residency? Isn’t there anything else you would enjoy? Don’t you want to have a family? I had listened to their concerns and started to doubt my desire to enter the field of surgery until that Friday night. This unknown female had impacted me in such a way that I knew that my place was in the operating room. I had shown myself that I could work with a team, under direction, and pay attention to details. I liked being able to search for a problem that could potentially be fixed within hours. Even though we couldn’t save this girl, I couldn’t help but think of what it would’ve felt like if the outcome were different. What if we could’ve gone into that waiting room and told the family that she had pulled through? How would it feel to talk to someone who was on the brink of death and who was now alive because of your actions? I can’t wait to figure it out.

Did you miss me?

Wow. Longest hiatus ever. Have no fear, I'm back, and I have a lot to talk about (at least I think I do). Unfortunately, my first post back will not be one of my more amusing ones, but I will work hard to entertain you in the future. So sit back, relax, and hopefully, enjoy.


The unexplained. Never liked it much; in fact, I hated X-Files. At any rate, leaving the unexplained as such makes me slightly nervous. That's why I revel in theorizing about the unexplained. Until now, my greatest theories (in my opinion, of course) attempt to explain that of contagious yawning and the urge to urinate when one hears running water. However, the one that I could never grasp was the one that I would be intimately related to for the rest of my life. Why is it that doctors become so jaded and can so easily seem to lose their ability to be human? Why is it that "we" (only in quotes because I'm not technically a doctor yet) can cut people open, practically bathe in their blood, neglect to save their lives, and not let that affect us? I think I may finally have the answer.


For the last 3+ years, I've been assertively defending myself as a human being. When a current doctor would tell me, a future doctor, that I would not be able to be happy-go-lucky and friendly with all of my patients forever, I immediately disagreed. "I'm just not like that," I would say. "I'll always be able to care about people and there will never be a night when I go home and I don't think about my patients." I realize that this is the fast track to burnout, but I couldn't and cannot accept the fact that at some point in their careers, doctors cease to view their patients as people and start to see them as whatever they substitute (money, machines, irritants, etc.). I've seen it happen. It usually doesn't occur until the doctor has been in practice for quite some time, typically shorter for a surgeon which doesn't bode well for me, and it's nasty.

Of course, there are the numerous patients who, on top of drinking, smoking, and shooting themselves up with drugs, are just plain evil. It's much more difficult to treat these people for their ailments, although we still have to do it. When you think about it, the medical industry is the only "business" in which you have to cater to everyone. Go to McDonalds, order a Big Mac, and then tell them that you're sorry but you can't afford to pay for it. See what happens. My guess is that they'll laugh at you first, and then send you away empty-handed. However, go to an emergency room with a gun-shot wound, bleed all over the floor, and tell them you don't have insurance or money to pay for their services. No problem. We have to save your life anyway. Does it matter that the reason you don't have insurance is because you're an illegal immigrant? Nope. Do we care that the reason you don't have money is because you wasted it all away to buy crack? Never. We can't kick you out of the hospital. In fact, at some hospitals all you have to do to be admitted is simply to tell the staff that you're homeless. They're required to keep you in the hospital until they can find a suitable place for you to live. Fair? Hardly.

I'm sure you can sense that my tone is becoming more and more irritated and harsh. Why? Let's look at it this way. Doctors choose to become doctors for whatever reason. You can think that we do it for the money. You can think that we want to have a prestigious career. That may be true for some doctors out there. But for the vast majority of us, we choose this career path because it makes us feel good. We like to help people. We are compassionate and don't hesitate to show it. We hug family members of the sick and dying because it makes us both feel better. We save your life because when you finally wake up from your coma, it makes us happy to see the joy on the faces of your loved ones. I'm not in this for the money. I'm in this because I am a giving person.

Why do we lose this compassion? Day after day, year after year, we pour our time and energy into healing the sick and dying. We give all we can until there is nothing left for us to give, in which case we find another doctor to help you who just may have a little extra to offer. Our life is both emotionally and physically draining, but we chose this life and it's worth it. We work hard to take care of you, but who takes care of us? Who helps us feel better when we've had a rough day? Certainly not our colleagues. They have nothing left to give, remember? So we turn to you, our friends, family, significant others, to brighten us up and bring us back to reality. To us, it's only natural to think that another human being can show empathy in our time of need.

But apparently, all too often this can be too much to ask. Case in point. A friend of mine is going through a rough time. (You know who you are and I apologize if this offends you. I'm not mad, just illustrating my point.) This friend was out at the bars with a friend of his a few weeks ago. After they were done having a few drinks, the friend drops my friend off at home and proceeds to get into a nasty car accident. He ends up in the ICU with multiple broken ribs, punctured and bruised lungs, on a ventilator. Not only because I'm going to be a doctor, but also because I'm a human being and I care about my friend, I spend the next several days checking on him to make sure that he's handling everything okay and that his friend is hanging in there. I share my medical knowledge to try to reassure my friend that everything will turn out alright in the end. Every single day, I make sure that his friend is improving in the ICU, and every single day I pray that my friend doesn't somehow feel responsible.

Then I have a rough day myself. I find out that my father lost his job and I fail two exams. I know that these exams are truly insignificant when it comes to my overall grades, but I begin to doubt my abilities to do well on a future exam that is much more important (and is coming up on 8/22). It's hard to explain how essential it is that I do well on this future exam, so just take my word that in order to become a surgeon and get into a good residency program, I need to do well, and now I am unsure that I can do as well as I need to. Needless to say, I need some reassurance. Even if it's a lie, I just need someone to tell me that I am smart and will do fine, not to worry. When I am talking to my friend that night, as usual I ask him how his friend is doing and continue with the normal banter that has become a delightful commonplace in our conversations. Then I reveal that I've had a rough day. I've failed two exams and I'm rightfully worried about this exam coming up next week. Silence. No reassurance. No guidance. What did I do wrong?

I realize that it is not my place to expect this friend to make me feel better. It is not his job to do so, nor should I be allowed to be upset with him for neglecting to lift my spirits. However, a word or two would've been nice.

So why do doctors become jaded and seemingly lose their ability to be human? When you are compassionate and empathize with patients and their families for a living, you start to expect the same in return. Maybe not from the patient. Maybe not from the patient's family. But from someone. Anyone. We spend years caring and giving until we just can't do it anymore. We hit the wall and things don't affect us anymore. We don't feel badly that we had to amputate a 21-year old's leg and he'll never walk normally again. It doesn't faze us to remove your colon so that you will spend the rest of your life defecating into a bag dangling out of your stomach. And when we can't save the life of a 17-year old girl who died so suddenly, we don't cry when we have to tell her family that we did everything we could.

I don't blame it on our friends and family. I blame it on the career itself. I'm not saying that it's right. I'm not saying that we should allow ourselves to become this way. But the mere fact of it is, why should we bother to care about others if others don't care about us?

Top Ten Worst Pickup Lines I Have Ever Heard

We all like to share hilarious pickup lines with each other in an attempt to make people laugh. However, pickup lines aren't really meant to be used in public. Do you really think that a cheesy, dirty, or just plain lame pickup line is going to work on any self-respecting woman? Did someone dare you to say the stupidest possible thing you could think of to some girl in the bar or are you completely clueless? In honor of moronic pickup lines, I have decided to share the top ten pickup lines that have ever been used on me, personally. It was hard to think of 10 times that I've actually gotten hit on at the bar, so don't get mad if the first few aren't that funny.

P.S. Some of the "pickup lines" were more conversational, so to make it more convenient for the more feeble-minded, I've put the pickup lines in italics and my subsequent thoughts in normal font.

10. "I like your shirt. White is the new black." Awww...now let's go shopping and you can be my new gay best friend.

9. "Are you going to the dance floor? Because if you are, I'll totally follow you there." Um, the bar doesn't have a dance floor...

8. "I've never noticed it before, but you've got a great hump." Gee, thanks. I know my ass is adorable, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna let you touch it.

7. "I owe you a drink." Why do you owe me a drink? Did you lose a bet with your friend and your punishment was to buy a drink for an ugly girl in the bar? Because if you say you owe me a drink, that's what I'm gonna think. If you just want to buy me a drink, then say so.

6. "How about you and I just get outta here." I know many people have been confused about just how "naughty" of a girl I am, so let me set you straight. I'm never going to leave a bar to have sex with someone I'm not dating. End of story.

5. "Man, I'd really like to bend you over the trunk of that car and f*ck your brains out." Subtlety really isn't your strong point, is it? What kind of reaction are you expecting here? Even if I did know you, do you honestly think I'm going to agree to this? I must admit, though, you've got balls for even daring to say this to a chick.

4. "Hey, where are you going?" "I'm going to my friend's place to get in the hot tub." "Well, I have TWO hot tubs." Great. You sit in one and I'll sit in the other one.

3. "Are you in a gang?" Why would you ask that? Do I look like a gang member? Apparently I don't, but this guy was confused. He went on to explain that he saw a movie where the members of certain gangs wore belts like the one that I had on and so he thought I might be in a gang that was trying to keep it on the down-low by mimicking a movie. By the end of his explanation of why he used such a terrible pickup line on me, I almost felt bad for the guy. Too bad I didn't feel bad enough to keep talking to him.

2. "How much does a polar bear weigh?" Geez, where is this going... "Enough to break the ice. Hi, I'm Zach." I must admit that I was pretty bitchy to this guy after he pulled this crap on me. I actually went as far as to ask him if that line ever worked before and if he thought I was stupid enough for it to work on me. I think I made him feel like a moron (which he totally was) and he even came up to me at the end of the night to ask if I really thought his line was that terrible. Yes, Zach, it was.

1. "Now, don't get mad at me or anything, but I have a business proposition for you." Oh, great. You probably want to pay me for sex...no...wait for it... "Do you do crack?" No, but I'm sure that if I did, I'd want to run off to a dark alley somewhere and shoot up a line with you, loser.

A Tribute

When Bob Casey would shout, "Hitting 3rd, the center fielder, #34, Kirby Puckett!" over the loudspeaker at the Metrodome, every single person in the stadium jumped out of his or her seat and roared. It didn't matter if there were 10,000 people at the game or 40,000. It didn't matter if it was a game that meant nothing or the 7th game of the World Series. Kirby Puckett always took the field ready to play as if it were his last game. He became the 9th player in history to have 4 hits in his first full major league game. He won the batting title in 1989, RBI title in 1994, and had 6 gold gloves. Kirby appeared in 10 straight all star games and was the MVP of the all star game in 1993.

He added 2 World Series championships to his resume in 1987 and 1991. His performance in the 1991 series was probably his most notable. The Twins were down 2 games to 3 against the Atlanta Braves and needed to win game 6 in order to have a chance at beating the Braves in the series. The Braves looked as if they were going to rally and pull ahead when Kirby leapt over the outfield wall and robbed Ron Gant of a double. The game went into extra innings and when Kirby lead off the bottom of the 11th inning with a walk-off homerun, he forced the game 7 that most consider the best World Series game ever.

In 1995, Kirby was hit on the side of the head with a fastball from Dennis Martinez. Although most people think that this was what caused the end of his career, Kirby was actually able to come back to spring training in 1996. When he woke up one morning during spring training and couldn't see out of his right eye, the doctors found that he had glaucoma. During his press conference to announce the end of his days playing major league baseball, Kirby said, "I was told that I'd never make it because I was too short. Well, I'm still too short, but I've got 10 all star games, 2 world series championships, and I'm a very happy and contented guy. It doesn't matter what your height is, it's what's in your heart."

On July 2, 2003, Kirby Puckett walked into my friend Jason's fireworks store where I was working for the summer. Every single person in the store dropped what they were doing and stared at him. Where I'm from, Kirby is a legend. He ended up taking my friend to his cabin up the road where he asked my friend if he would put on a fireworks show for Kirby's family on the 4th of July. Of course my friend agreed. When Jason got back to the store, I immediately pounced and nearly demanded that Jason allow me to come with him when he went back to do the show.

We closed the store early on the 4th so that we would have enough time to get ready for Kirby. The three of us that were going each grabbed a shopping cart and started filling it up with our favorite fireworks. Then Jason and Juice hooked up all of the fireworks so that we could light them by flipping a switch instead of having to take a match to the wick. We loaded up Jason's truck and drove over to Kirby's cabin. When we got out of the car, we saw Kirby's uncle sitting on a folding chair in the garage. He looked at us like we were some crazy white kids that were about to start some shit, but when we let him know what we were there for, he immediately warmed up and even offered us a beer. We declined (because it's probably not a good idea to be drinking while playing with explosives) and started to unload the fireworks from the truck. That's when Kirby came out of the cabin to say hi. He was listed on all of my old baseball cards as being 5'8", but I swear that he couldn't have been taller than 5'6". His right eye was barely able to open and he was about 3 times wider than I was. Jason introduced Juice and me to Kirby and I don't think I've ever been so excited to shake someone's hand. I pride myself on having a firm handshake, but compared to Kirby's, mine probably feels like trying to shake hands with a wet noodle. His handshake consisted of squeezing so hard that I thought he might have broken my hand. But I didn't want to let on to that. I'd never want my hero to think that I was a wimp. Jason definitely didn't charge Kirby as much as the fireworks would've costed if someone were to come buy them in the store, but he didn't mind losing a little bit of money. It was worth it to be able to meet someone that you had looked up to your whole life.

After hearing that Kirby had suffered a massive stroke yesterday and was in critical condition, my mom was pretty sure that he wasn't going to make it. I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it too, but I always viewed Kirby as an invincible super hero. If you would've asked me when I was younger, I probably would've told you that Kirby would never die. A guy like him should've been immortal. He was just the kind of guy that had the spirit and drive to fight through anything. Unfortunately, despite the millions of prayers being said for him throughout the country, he couldn't pull through. Kirby was read his last rites and passed away this afternoon.

I must admit that my eyes got misty when reading about his passing today. My sister and I grew up wanting to be like him, and I know we weren't the only kids that loved baseball simply because of Kirby.

We're going to miss you, #34.

Child of the 80s

On my way to the hell-hole that is New Jersey to watch DC and the rest of the Ball State team play volleyball, my friend, George, decided to poke fun at me. We were talking about how I get mad when our volleyball league has games on Wednesday nights because I can't watch America's Next Top Model (yeah, I like it...shut up). He asked why I didn't just TIVO it. Let's see, I'm in med school and can't afford TIVO. The next logical question in George's mind was, "So why don't you DVR it?" Hmmm...no DVR, George. Not to fear though, because I still own a VCR. That's right. A VCR. George took it upon himself to laugh at me for still living in the 80s. After I thought about it for a while, I decided that I wouldn't mind being back in the 80s. This is why:

• 80s movies kicked ass. Raiders of the Lost Ark, Gremlins, The Goonies, Top Gun, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Dirty Dancing, and The Little Mermaid all came out in the 80s.
• 80s rappers weren't shot by each other. They still wrote wholesome songs about how it's tricky to rhyme, how parents just don't understand (although that technically came out in 1990), and how joy and pain are like sunshine and rain. It wasn't just rap that was good. The 80s was the time when Mariah Carey still wore normal clothing, Madonna's songs were actually good, Prince was still Prince, and even though George Michael wore incredibly short shorts while touring with Wham, we all thought it was normal and such a handsome man couldn't possibly be gay. Oh, to be naive again...
• Cartoons kicked ass in the 80s. She-Ra was my hero and I still secretly wish that I could be her, the Princess of Power. You could wake up on Saturday mornings and watch Bozo the Clown, He-Man, Alvin and the Chipmunks, Heathcliff, Inspector Gadget, and the Wuzzles. Then there was always the Transformers, Rainbow Brite, the Smurfs, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Jem, and Punky Brewster. Don't forget that the wonder that is The Simpsons first started in 1989.
• Possibly the best thing about the 80s is that to have a bad hair day would be to have a good hair day. Nobody knew the difference. The worse your hair looked, the cooler you were.
• If I were back in the 80s, I would have an excuse to wear spandex shorts all of the time, instead of just at volleyball. Let's face it...those things are hella comfortable.
• Besides being comfortable in spandex, I could also fill my dresser back up with Zubaz. How sweet were those things? Seriously, you could find them in any color so that you could match anything! Hot pink and black tiger striped Zubaz with a green hypercolor shirt = awesome.
• Atari controllers only had 1 button. You didn't have to be a genius to figure out how to use it. Nowadays, controllers have 8 billion different buttons with different shapes and shit. It's too much to handle.
• If I currently had a job, and it were the 80s, I could go to work with a My Little Pony lunchbox and thermos and I would eat Cheese and Crackers snack packs every day.
• Michael Jackson would still be black and sweet ass.
• I could still watch Miami Vice and it would still be cool for guys to wear white leisure suits with pink shirts underneath them.
• Insults could be less violent...I could go back to saying, "Ugh, gag me with a spoon."
• Instead of riding the subway around Manhattan, I would ride my Big Wheel. I would probably get wherever I was going faster that way too.

See, the 80s were cool. You know you rocked the mullet and wore bangle bracelets up to your elbow.

Don't Even Think About It

For some reason, people enjoy angering me. I am not sure if this is because they think it's funny to see me mad or because they just don't know what pushes my buttons. I can't do anything about the cruel, inhumane people who like to piss me off for fun, but I can help out those of you who don't know the things that make me tick. Therefore, I have compiled a list of things you should never do or say around me. Unfortunately, I could only come up with 8 good things to write about, so instead of a "top ten" list, it's a "top eight" list. What can I say? It's usually pretty easy to please me. Enjoy.

8. Do not jokingly pick a fight with me unless you want to get your ass kicked. If you want to "play" fight, I'm not the person to ask. When I fight, I fight dirty. I don't do the typical girl moves of scratching and pulling hair. I punch, chokehold, and bite, much like Mike Tyson.

7. If you tell me that you're going to call, I expect you to call. You may think that this is silly talk, but I expect a lot less out of you when you don't tell me your intentions. To be safe, don't tell me that you'll call. Just randomly do it. That way it's a surprise and I feel special.

6. I never claimed to be a genius, but I can pretty much tell when I'm being used simply for the benefit of a male. Don't do this. Yeah, I know I'm fun to fool around with (sorry Mom, but it's true) and you just can't help yourself. However, I'm worth more than that. If you're going to want to get naked and play but not try to develop a relationship with me, it's going to cost you. My going rate is $150 per hour (for the bare minimum), and I'm damn well worth it.

5. This rule should be used when around any female: do not tell us when we look like crap. Chances are high that we are already aware that we are not at our prettiest and we probably are a little self-conscious about it. Don't make it worse by pointing it out, or I'll have to resort to making fun of the size of your penis.
4. Yes, mosquitoes don't treat me kindly. And yes, I have scars to prove it. Please do not gawk or make fun of the scars. I will probably punch you.

3. I have a candy drawer. My candy drawer is filled with goodies. This sacred land of sugar-filled goodness is mine. Do not steal from the candy drawer, ever. You may eat something from the drawer if it is offered to you. However, just because I offer once does not give you free reign to take something from the drawer on any subsequent occasion. I am very possessive of my candy.

2. Boobs are basically blobs of fat. Unfortunately, my blobs of fat are fairly non-existent. I am self-conscious about the fact that a 10 year old boy's chest could rival mine, therefore, leave my boobs alone. Just don't touch them. Don't try to tell me that they're not that small. I'm not stupid. Besides, boobs are for babies to drink from anyway, not guys.

1. NEVER, under ANY circumstances, should you try to insert ANYTHING into the "exit hole". First of all, it's highly unsanitary and incredibly revolting. Secondly, it's not a pleasing feeling for females. We do not have a g-spot in our rectums. Lastly, any male who enjoys doing this is selfish, because it only feels good to him. Do you really want to be known as a selfish, dirty pervert who likes to inflict pain? I hope not.

Yeah, WHAT?

It's hard to say that I'm not slightly disappointed for not getting what I really wanted for Christmas this year. I hoped; I prayed...all the while knowing that my one wish would be a long shot. No, I didn't want my two front teeth for Christmas. I wanted boobs.

When I tell people that I asked my parents for a new set of hooters for Christmas, most look at me sideways and ask if I'm serious. Of course I'm serious, people! Others who know me better already sense that I'm dead serious and they try to tell me that boobs don't matter. "You're fine the way you are," they tell me. "Boobs aren't important anyway," they say. In order to show just what a new set of tatas would mean to me, I would like to take this moment to explain myself.

I was a giant back in the day. In fact, I haven't grown since 6th grade. This lack of growth isn't only in height or weight, but also in the chest region. That's right, I have the boobs of a 6th grader.

I am prohibited from buying triangle top bikinis because I am unable to properly fill them out. I can't purchase a tube top because it would slide right off of my torso. The only reason that my boobs bounce when I run is because of the water in my bra.

I also get a lot of shit for my lack of breasts. People joke that it's nearly impossible to find my boobs. "It's impossible to squish what you don't have," they mockingly say. Just the other day my ex-boyfriend told me that my boobs looked bigger and followed that up by asking if I had bought a new bra (as he was trying to feel and see for himself). If that's not bad enough, even my dad, who barely says anything at all, will take a moment out of his day to make fun of my diminished assets.

Before break, a nameless someone tried to convince me that guys really don't care about boobs. Only seconds afterwards, saw a large-breasted woman on tv and said, "HELLO!" in that perverted talk that all guys know so well. Later, when he went to kiss me, the first place his hands wandered were right to my mosquito bite boobs. This is even after I've explained to him that I HATE it when guys go there. Why? Because I'm very self-conscious about it and I would appreciate it if attention were not drawn to that area. Don't try to tell me that guys don't care about hooters!!!

A lot of people would say that enhancing your figure through plastic surgery is a materialistic, vain thing to do. I would have to say that those people are usually the ones that are perfectly happy with their bodies and don't realize what it's like to feel unfeminine and inferior. If you know me, you know that I am one of the least materialistic people around. Although I don't like to go out in public looking like ass, I wouldn't say that I focus on my appearance.

Adding boobs to my figure would make me feel more feminine and sexy. I would feel more comfortable with myself by increasing the size just a tad. I don't need to have DDs or even a C. I just want to have some semblance of a chest and I think that's only fair.

If you think I'm silly, fine. It doesn't matter anyway because I still don't have boobs. However, if you feel my pain and would like to help me out, I'll be taking donations through my paypal account in order to hopefully fund my new knockers. Do the right thing and be a part owner. Invest in the future. Maybe I'll even let you touch them.