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September 5, 2007
I once relinquished my latest CBC to my then-boyfriend, looking for a curbside. He was a cocksure, Johnny Medschool-type who once had envisioned himself as a surgeon but somehow found a higher calling in the banalities of dispensing pain medications and insulin. I wanted to make sure I wasnít crazy, that I hadnít construed the values to fit a finals-week-induced hypochondria. I didnít tell him it was mine; I wanted to preserve objectivitiy. He looked at it, then at me, rendered his diagnosis, and then suggested we go get Subway, because it was Wednesday, and the footlongs were half price.