It’s been another one of those trying times when I’m looked on with sheer alarm and utter pity by all those around me. Things I’ve learned in the past week, dear reader:

 Nothing is sacred.

It is time to change doctors when the one you have effectively burns your what-not’s off.

 Often times, I am way too “tmi” in my blogs and real life dealings.

It is time to change doctors when the one you have tries to kill you via anaphylactic shock and then proceeds to burn your what-not’s off.

 I like that Natasha Bedingfield. Good, raspy voice.

It is time to go back to bed when you lock yourself out of your apartment without your car keys. Hopefully, you will have a dear friend named Bryan who scurries over and can’t even bear to feast on your tragedies because they have been so bad of late and your what-not’s require prescription burn cream because you have an incompetent doctor who prefers to burn patients’ what-not’s off.

 I don’t like volunteering.

Air Force commissioning involves cake.

Freckles rock the house.

My gp cannot be trusted, and that’s not just the paranoia talking. My gyno is a nice, gay man, though. I enjoy him (maybe enjoy isn’t the right word?) and he has my last name (Dr. Lady, of course). He’s like, “look, honey, a lot of women prefer women to treat women’s issues but I tell people, if you had a brain tumor, would you want a doctor to work on you who also has a brain tumor? Not so much.” Which is why I love nice, gay men.

 I (heart) space and the Kennedy Space Center. Also, if you are within 800 feet of a shuttle launch, the sound will kill you. What does death-by-loud-noise feel like, I wonder? Do the vibrations cause you to disintegrate? I will look up the answers to these and all other important questions on Wikipedia.