Death and moving on

One of our patients died over the weekend. He was a cantankerous old man, cranky and mean most of the time. He had been a doctor - a psychiatrist - in his younger days. At his late stages of life, he had basically lost his mind. His memory was gone, and he required almost constant care. But he always remembered my name. Always. Even without looking at my name badge. I attribute that mostly to my boobs. Which just goes to show you - no matter how old a man gets, or how much his mind has gone, he NEVER forgets boobs.

I set up a profile on a dating site yesterday. I don't really know why. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment, but mainly I just want to see what's out there. As soon as I hit 'submit' to enter my profile into their vast database, my phone buzzed. It was the bass player, texting me. Does he have great timing or what? Awesome. His message was, "I'm not doing good, is it too late?" I knew that he wasn't referring to the time of day, so I wrote back, "Too late for what?" A few minutes later he called, crying, telling me how he wanted to be here with me and that he wanted to call me a million times but didn't know what to say and that he still had so many things to tell me and did I think his car would make it to Dallas?

Sigh.

I sure pick em well, don't I?

Within a few minutes of submitting my profile on the dating site, I started to receive messages. The first one was thus:
"I wish you didn't smoke."
Um, well, I do. Did you think that by saying this I would take one look at your profile and put down the cigarettes for good, in favor of your undying and unconiditional love?
Get over yourself, dude.
I didn't respond, but after looking at his profile, I should have said, "I wish you weren't fat and bald, but wish in one hand...."