I have always maintained that being tired is just like being drunk, only not as much fun. It would've been unfortunate to prove it this afternoon as I sped down the 290 with my sense of space and distance completely out of whack. The only think that kept me from closing my eyes and careening head on into the car in front of me was the thought of the likelihood that I would be sent to the ER of either Cook County or Mt. Sinai and end up being rectalized and/or Foleyed (WARNING!!! Links may contain explicit material!) by one of my classmates. (Don't you love it when nouns are turned into verbs? Apparently Floridians describe the act of being committed against your will as being "baker-acted," the verb form of the Baker Act that allows physicians to declare people as insane and therefore incompetent. Anyway.)

But I love how I have become a full blown hypochondriac. The only thing that Pathology taught me are more diseases that I can imagine I have. For example, I think that the non-healing cut on my lip is squamous cell carcinoma, the mass underneath my tongue is a lymphoma, and that I have TB. Talk about radical weight loss programs.

My God, my god. I am not making a hell whole lot of sense here, and yet here I am, still continuously blabbering.

I could talk about how I can't say no to a pretty face. This is what men call stupidity. But anything I could say about this topic would be long, boring, and pointless, and besides, my long term goal is about being OK relying on myself. I am a rock. I am an island. Right.

I have come to the realization that I have worked 20 days straight with no days off, waking about around 5:00am every morning give or take, and apparently it is taking a severe toll on my mental health. My reaction time has seriously been lengthened to dangerous proportions. I swear I stared blankly at my attending for a good full minute as he waited for me to answer his question. And despite all this, I cannot sleep at a proper hour. I have a feeling that tomorrow's call will be quite the test by fire.

Cameron Frye: I'm dying.

Ferris Bueller: You're not dying. You just can't think of anything better to do.

Oh sleep, sweet blessed sleep. Where is my goddamn pillow?