I am supposed to die on the morning of December 3, 2066.
It’s a Friday.
I am supposed to die on the morning of December 3, 2066.
It’s a Friday.
An old boxer can tell you that there is no shortcut to the championship rounds.
Just by entering this industry, healthcare workers are at increased risk for mental illness. But are state medical board applications just making it worse?
Time had eroded all of the silly parts: hair and skin and muscle and youth. It left behind a brittle skeleton walking on a razor’s edge.
I’m in an empty convention center bathroom, staring down at the rows of tiny square tiles, wondering if I’ll see my lunch again.
Is our interpretation of prior actions an accurate assessment of the past? Or is it a cognitive trap, an illusion created by a minefield of biases?
Is the social construct of medical negligence psychologically sound? Or are we supporting judicial voodoo?
Is our judgement of prior events an accurate assessment of the past? Or is it a cognitive trap, an illusion created by a minefield of biases?