And another thing. One of the patients mistook me for someone he was once previously hospitalized with, who was getting electroconvulsive therapy. Presumably this is another hint that I need to get my hair cut.
A raging Bruxist, I grew up on an ostrich farm until I was mistaken for a woman one time too many. Leaving my angsty post-teen life as one of three only children, I flew to Stockholm where I unexpectedly won the Man Booker Prize for lengthy blogging about being short. I'm perplexed to report that I like painting tiny Romans.