Wha? Wait? Wha?

Sleepy intern is just stumbling into cool, calm house to catch some zzzz's after her first overnight Trauma Surgery call. (The following will also be third personesque because, well, because it's just less painful for her to pretend things.)

Things weren't so bad, afterall. There were only four thousand sick gallbladders and 100 traumas for her to juggle. Of course, she's exaggerating. Really only 450 plugged with stinky poo appendices came floating by. It was fun, real fun! It was especially fun for radiology-no-likey-touchy-patients gal when a girl came waltzing in (and by waltzing, silly intern means wheeled in by EMS, intubated, limbs contorted) with everything broken. Bro. Ken. Oh, and bleeding. Blood. Lots and lots.

While that poor thing was being stitched and chopped and mended and fixed in the OR yet ANOTHER trauma came into see the mad skilz intern. This time, he smelled like vomit. Beer vomit.

Whimsically, delirious intern skips up to OR to present beer vomit guy to her favorite trauma team when she slings open the door to find the boss of her team standing in a VERY public room in his whitey tighties (bloody scrubs need changed, I suppose). Undies, I tell you. Undies. She makes a cute/horrified face and quickly apologizes in the same embarrassed fashion as she did to her dentist when she caught him peeing and then quickly vanished into another room. He followed. Yes, followed. In skivvies. Behind her. I mean, afterall, he needed clean scrubs. And she needed an eyeball transplant, I mean, to check out her patient. As she's trying to mutter, "This is a 60-someodd year old white male who is transferred to us from an outside hospital status post cardiac arrest, now with free air in his abdomen," she's really thinking, "Jennifer, look at the wall. No, no, not at Dr. Whitey. The wall. Why God? Why me? Again. I mean, really? The wall, Jennifer. Focus."

Wowzas.

The night was pretty boring after that.