What Am I?

Here I am, on a blooming Friday night, under the covers with a beer in my hand. Since I feel so good about sacrificing the night to doing work, I might as well reward myself with a little procrastination.

A devoted reader of Bili Rubin commented on my previous post. First, I was thrilled to receive a rare comment. Then I was perturbed at a reader anonymously demanding to spoil the intrigue (and rather creepily alluding to the tachycardic effect of checking Bili Rubin). Why would anyone revisit Bili Rubin unless they:

A) had a penchant for nursing paraphenelia
B) expected to see themself displayed in a photograph
C) hoped to understand, one post at a time, why a compassionate young nurse is such a smartass
D) suffers from Parkinson's and accidentally clicks on David's Medora link a lot

So that is why I will not respond with details about my hobbies (making stews and dancing when no one is looking), my wildest dreams (skipping with my own herd of goats and winning an award for their cheeses), my biggest failures (not owning any hot pants or learning to throw a ball), my place of nacimiento (Rugby, North Dakota: the imprecise geographical center point of North America), etc.

You're going to have to do a lot better than that. I do hope you try harder, dear readers of Bili Rubin.