Why I love one of my daughters more than the other

A long time ago, in the antediluvian era of iron men and wooden ships, when giants walked the halls, I returned to our squalid little home, weak, exhausted (me, not the home), discouraged beyond belief, feeling like two things would never end, one being my medical training, the other being this sentence, wandering about the wilderness like the children of Abraham. I came to rest in my prized Salvation Army easy chair which offered me so much comfort that I came to regard it as a friend and perhaps even a trusted mentor, more of a mentor than those narcistic fascists who ran the training program and kept me in an endless state of torment. There I sat, finally at peace after a brutal 36 hour on-call marathon when you approached. Although you were only 7 months old at the time, you possessed a deviousness far beyond your age, given away by the impish gleam in your eyes as you crawled up to the chair, carelessly knocking over my sun tea and revealing a maliciousness that was both startling and alarming.

As I traveled to Branson, Missouri and back in order to pick up my as of that time unborn son from summer camp, I listened with your mother to the audio version of The DaVinci Code and thought to myself, "Surely I can write pretentious prose about largely fictitious pseudohistorical events, too."; after what seemed like an eternity of internal struggle but in reality represented the time it took your mother to hop out of the car, run into the McDonald's, go to the bathroom (I resolutely refused any liquid refreshment to obviate the need for such activity), and bring back two luscious hot-fudge sundies in which the peanuts had been held (purely for dietetic reasons), I reached this startling conclusion: Just Kidding!

Now get back to your studies and/or go find a job, depending on which one of you reads this.