Malpractice: How Big is YOUR Elbow?

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Disclaimer: The blood in your veins was once dinosaur piss.

You're riding a bicycle through a scorching desert. You are sweating profusely. Your bicycle is so rusty it looks as fragile as a potato chip.

It suddenly collapses beneath you. You decide to walk with the wheels of the bicycle taped to your feet.

It's a sentimental, nostalgic thing. Much like the feeling you get when you have a haircut, and the hair sprinkles down the back of your shirt. The past is there, but IT's itchy as hell.

You arrive at a grocery store.

You walk inside.

You see that the store only sells one product: sand.

You ask the manager of the grocery store: "Why would I want to buy sand? There's tons of sand in the desert all around!"

The manager of the grocery store doesn't answer you, because he too is made of sand.

You see a beach ball in the middle of the store. You walk up to it. It is shiny.

It bursts.

You are running out of the grocery store.

Actually, no you aren't.

You are reading an article.

But you had an image inside your head that you were in a grocery store.

You were using your imagination.

It's similar to when people pretend to care about sports, when in reality they're just thirsty. Desperately thirsty.

But the only thing on the shelves of the grocery store is sand. No orange juice. No gatorade. Nothing drinkable. And nobody to ask.

You can pretend to enjoy watching television, but don't be surprised if the beachball suddenly bursts. S

Shiny things.

See what I'm driving at here?

Stop worrying about your arms, elbows, legs, eyes, toes and so forth.

That's just the walls. Only walls. What matters is whether you've got sand on the inside, or legitimate groceries.

Bouncing around like a clown falling down.

You've finished the article. The beachball has burst.

What's your plan, sand-man?