up your nose with a rubber hose

dearest my nearly departed,
though i know it is worse for you because you are dying, i must complain for a bit first. I won't even talk about my job. the hacking off of limbs and all the blood etc. it's not even that. it's all the other things for which there are no pills or surgeries. well maybe there are surgeries, but how effective are they? will quality of life be better? or do we just not know ourselves that well? do we overpredict our happiness and sadness and incorrectly choose our path to happiness? some scientists think so. descartes thinks it is possible to make no errors, if we only reign in our will to fit our intellect. cogito ergo sum. but chekhov thinks maybe this is the problem. "i think and think, and cannot think of anything. and however much i were to think and however far i were to scatter my thoughts, it is clear to me that the main thing, something very important, is lacking in my desires. in my partiality for science, in my desire to live, in my sitting here on a strange bed and in my longing to know myself, in all my thoughts, feelings, and concepts about everything, there is no common link, there is nothing that might bind it together in one whole. each thought and feeling lives in me separately, and the most skilful analyst could not discover what is known as a ruling idea or what might be called the god of the living man in all my opinions of science, the theatre, literature, students and all the pictures my imagination conjures up. And if that is not there, nothing is there." woah. sorry i only write form the depths of menstruation, vicadin and all night benders of Friday Night Lights. (which is like a jar full of heavenly jelly) i'll probably feel better tomorrow. for my patients' sake, i hope so.
always always always,
dr. blamblo m.d. (minorly depraved)