I've always wondered whether food wants to be eaten. It could go either way, really. Think about it: when a kernel of rice falls from your plate of kung pao, is it rejoicing in its escape from the death row of your belly? Or is the little guy heartbroken because he lost his one chance at making you happy and fulfilled-- his one purpose in life, to feed you, shot to pieces by one careless flick of your chopsticks?

According to Adam Sandler, it's the latter. In his own talks with anthropomorphic food, he advises the food to be nice to its creator, the lunch lady. Quoth Sandler, "If it wasn't for her the kids wouldn't eatcha/ you should be shakin' her hand and saying 'Pleased to meetcha.'" Since the food is meant to be grateful to the lunch lady for serving it to the kids, it is safe to assume that food does in fact want to be eaten.

So next time you see a little stray noodle on your placemat, don't cast a blind eye. Pick that sucker up and send it down the chute. It'll be happy you did. And never forget the five second rule.

So I have to study the brain for the next three months. It's funny when you think that I spent three months studying the whole rest of the body. Yeah, the brain is complex. But it's so small! I keep getting frustrated by having to squint and lean in close to see these infinitessimally small structures. I thought, "Hey, it would be great if brains were bigger, so then I wouldn't have to strain to see all this crap." But then I realized that if my brain was bigger I wouldn't have nearly as hard a time grasping all this. I guess there's an ideal brain size that would allow learning about the brain to be easy. I'm getting a headache thinking about this, so I will stop now.

I have this weird paranoid version of solipsism. It involves the classic view of oneself as a "special case," but in my pathos I'm not the Queen of Everything. Far from it. Sometimes, I just have to wonder: am I a really fragile sociopath who people are nice to out of a mixture of fear and pity?

My next door neighbor, Peppermint Patty, is peanut butter. Everyone thinks she's wacko-- our other neighbors, the apartment manager-- and my 5 foot 11 roommate triple locks the door every night becase, in his words, "She's the type that really would come after you with an axe." I avoid her when possible, but when I do see her I'm polite and civil. I didn't snap at her once when she cornered me in the building washroom and instructed me on the proper washing of my clothes. ("Oops, watch out, you dropped your panties.") Does she know people think she's wacko, or does everyone cover it up too well? How do I know I don't live in a world where everyone lives in fear of my crazy messed up reactive personality? Perhaps I'm so crazy I can't read people at all, like her.

Just the fact that I'm in med school doesn't mean I'm free of social pathology... in fact, that's one of the reasons I worry. My classmates are, for the most part, a goodie bag of personality disorders. On some level a lot of people are here to balance their shortcomings with the second half of a sentence. Example: "You may be __________ (crazy, ugly, uncouth, unfunny, a broccoli head), but you are a doctor... okay, let's have sex!" Anyway, so there are a lot of crazies here. Maybe I'm so crazy I can't tell. Maybe they're all gonna laugh at me!

This is what happens late at night after studying all day. I need to stop being such a broccoli head.

Medical school has unfurled before me a wave of self-discovery. Things I never knew about myself include:

I'm an anorexic dissector. When it comes to cadaver lab, I don't actually cut anything... I just moosh around the organs to make it look like I'm doing something.

I really am one of those multi colored pen people I mocked relentlessly in college.

I'm good at napping, inserting my foot in my mouth in front of deans, cooking, and making friends. I'm bad at studying, keeping nylons snag-free, and keeping them (friends, not snagged nylons).