Tonight, as I flicked through the channels aimlessly in an attempt to fill the void between dinner and bedtime, I caught a documentary on emergency medicine that took me back to the year I played with fate and fire. In the crowd of doctors, nurses, surgical specialties and medical students, I was searching for your face. For a long, long time, I resisted writing about you, because you did to me what that 14 year old boy did to my 14 year old self-- he took her heart and crushed it into a million little pieces. I used to hold you in high regard, but now, now I just detest you. I was unable to fathom how much anger and disappointment one could harbour until I met you-- in the year I played with fate and fire. I was hurt, resentful, bitter, and-- most of all-- bereft of hope. It was as if fate had doused my soul in petrol and set it alight, for, in my whole life, I have never felt as terrible as I had during our brief sojourn in which I traded my sanity for sleepless nights and fearsome mornings. In a way, I am glad I had the courage to leave, because I thought you were God-- and you turned out to be the Devil.
Testing out Blogger for iPad, in the doctor's on-call room.