That part of me left yesterday. The heart of me is strong today. No regrets; I'm blessed to say the old me's dead and gone away.

When hospitalized, you have a lot of time to think, and when they start getting those "medical drips" (or psychedelic drugs, as I'm sure they are) into you, your thoughts get a little uninhibited.

My musings consisted of:

• which Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle would save my life in a sticky situation


• how many freckles would develop on my butt cheek if someone glued a flashlight to it and jammed the power button to 'on'


• what my name would be if I was any other ethnicity than I am now


• what my song selection would be if I was a contestant in the Eurovision contest


• how soon I would die in Death Note


• how genetically alike we are to cows


• what kind of historical leader I would be most like


• what decade I'd be most iconic in, fashionably-speaking


• and, what would be wrong with me if I was a character in Nip/Tuck (as well as whether or not I'd be on Christian Troy's list of sexual 'hit and runs')

My solutions to these questions were:

• The obvious choice was Michelangelo, but I decided that Donatello would save me and I'd be confused by whom it was and thus say, "Thank you, Leonardo." Then Master Splinter would wipe me memory and return me to a safe location ... in Hawaii.


• I decided zero freckles would form because I don't think the flashlight would betray me that way.


• If I was Aborigine, my name would be Kylie. (It means "boomerang" and, due to my navigational challenges, I always tend to come back around where I've already been.) If I was Finnish, my name would be Preita. (It means "most loving one". This one suits because, if nothing else, I am a big soft Pokeball of compassion and affection.) If I was Czech, my name would be Marjeta. (It means "pearl" and I think every girl should have some. I personally don't think they make you look like you're cashing in your pension, but maybe that's just me.) If I was Arabic, my name would be Kamilah. (It means "the perfect one" ... and hey, I'd like to think so.) I could do this for hours.

• Definitely some ABBA. 'Voulez-Vous', of course. It's got some multiculturalism to it. The Eurovision judges would be weeping with pride and joy.

• Light Yagami would probably not like anyone who was onto him, and, because I know that, I'd be his close gal pal who didn't interfere and who he came to with all his (non-criminal) secrets. And then, he'd fall for me, and I'd say, 'No can do, Tonto,' and so he would write my name in his little book. I think I'd last two to three months.

• We're 80% genetically alike to cows. (I just know this.)

• I'm totally Marie-Antoinette. Let them eat cake.

• Well, it'd definitely be before the '80's because Madonna's whole mess and Melanie Griffith's shoulder pads definitely aren't my cup of marguerita. Not a fifties girl, solely because I'm too understated to be Marilyn Monroe-like.
  
  
  I'd like the sixties, but good ol' Audrey wore Hubert de Givenchy too much, which pushes me away from my Breakfast at Tiffany's and pulls me into my less-than-all-designer-labels wardrobe.
  
  
  Although Lauren Bacall's 1940s sleek and tailored look is tempting, I think I'm more 'seventies than I care to admit. I have the whole Annie Hall masculine vest thing I try on for size every few months, as well as the very hippie chic look of Ali McGraw, with my chunky jewellery, knit hats, and my jeans and long sweater combinations. No tie-dye necessary. How very go-with-the-flow of me.

• I'd probably have some vain and absolutely unnecessary lipo on my thighs and eye surgery of some sort.
  
  
  Not because I'd want it. But because this is what Sean McNamera wouldn't want me to have. Oh, and I wouldn't sleep with Christian. He'd probably tell me I was a 7 and I'd want to bop him.

Anyway, my point was, the mind wanders and I thought I was always the Deep Thinker in a group, but recently, one of my profs told me otherwise.

Apparently, I'm not just one archetype. Seeing as I've been ill, my return sparked some response and I was told numerous things. As I work in a group when we do class reviews, I tend to assume a role. But my role wasn't the Deep Thinker, like I said.

Apparently, I fill four roles: The Mother, The Coach, The Cheerleader, and The Ringer.

Let's do this one at a time.

Why the Mother? Well, simply, because upon my return, the reviews had definitely gone in my team's favour and I was beaming like one. I was. I can't lie and say this was an exaggeration.

Then, I thought about it. Most mothers aren't always as this archetype implies. So, what kind of mother am I?

I'm definitely not Edith Bunker-material, because anyone called me 'dingbat' and they'd have some regrets about the situation. But, then again, I'm not Roseanne Conner -- for a whole duffel bag full of reasons. Let's just let that one lay down and die, right here, right now, okey dokey?

Now, June Cleaver is a little too peppy, I guess, but she's not as bad as the rep she's given by feminists, I don't think.

Marge Simpson puts up with too much. Morticia Addams is too Gothic to be me. I'm a ray of sunshine in comparison, although I do share her whole fair-skinned thing.

Okay, so I've narrowed it down to these four wonderful mothers: Samantha Stephens, Clair Huxtable, Marion Cunningham, and Lucy Ricardo. Let's eliminate 'em down to the grand champ.

Well, I'd love to be Bewitched. Because of the whole nose thing. Believe me, I've spent many-a-day trying to do that. I was almost positive I had it once. But no one believes me. So, I guess, this one's not happening -- but let the record show, every little thing I do is magic.

Clair Huxtable's a business woman with too many kids and too many moral lessons to teach. I am not going to be a mama to that many. I don't care how much money I get. Baby bonuses are not that much. And I already have morals, lots of 'em. I don't need a show about it. The Cosbys already did that.

Then, there's Marion Cunningham. I'm a ginger, but that's not happening... That's TOO 'mom' for me.

So, I guess that leaves it. I'm Lucy.

Moving on ... the Coach. I'm not very Coach Carter or anything like that. I'm just very soccer mom, I guess. I tell them to do their best, think 'success', and to go with what they're good at. For example, someone we'll call Billy Bob in my group does not know much literature, so I tell him to avoid that and stick to something he's more in tune to.

Okay, so wait ... in terms of movies (which I love, if you haven't noticed), this means I'm not Tom Hanks in "A League of Their Own", simply because, if you need to cry, I've got a shoulder. I thought through my options. I could be a Denzel or a Hackman (both very significant options), but instead ... I'm Burgess Meredith. Who, you say?

Mickey Goldmill, the Rocky dude. I'm in your corner.

Next, I'm a Cheerleader. Now, before we get all Bring It On, please know I'm not like that. I'm just very 'rah-rah' supportive. I'm kind of like a really good best friend ... with pom poms. I'm that cheerleader on the spirit squad who actually shouldn't be a cheerleader because I'm too sweet for the elitist attitude.

Finally, I'm the Ringer. For the record, I didn't actually know what this was. Turns out it's kind of like the secret weapon of the group ... the safety net when all else fails. This was true, because, whatever they didn't know, I did. I'm a watch that fires lasers. I'm a pen to turns into a helicopter. I'm an umbrella that shoots bullets. Simply put, I'm the Penguin's favourite accessory.

Poor Batman. Didn't see me coming.