“Deader than my Pancreas”

So yeah, the other night I had an odd dream involving the show Castle.  I was part of the team working on some murder case.  We were in a big hotel that looked oddly like a set of dorms at my alma mater called “The Trees”.  (I lived in Maple one year and in Elm the next - but I digress.)  Anyway . . . . um . . . . in the dream . . .  I may have kissed Nathan Fillion.  Or I guess I actually kissed Richard Castle.  But whatever, no need to split hairs here.  (And yes, he really was ruggedly handsome.) 

So that dream stuck with me all day yesterday and it got me thinking . . . . I should be on an episode of Castle!  (Lets forget for a minute that I can’t act, okay?)  The episode would be called “Deader than my Pancreas”.  I would be the expert dia-consultant (or is it consulta-betic??) and I’d work a case involving the murder of a pancreas.  After all, I do have more than 32 years of hands on experience!  When the team is alarmed by the blood splatters and hemoglobin blobs all over the place, I’d be the one to assure them it’s a normal state for any PWDs house to be found in after all those finger sticks and site gushers.  When they want to follow the trail of used lancets to the killer, I’d be the one to tell them the trail is clearly a ruse . . . .  because real diabetics don’t change their lancets often enough to leave a trail.  Instead I’d show them how to follow the trail of discarded test strips to the real diabetic.  Luckily we wouldn’t have to worry about being too engrossed in our crime solving to stop for dinner because, like any prepared diabetic, I’d have enough snacks in my bag to fuel our whole team through the night.  And I’d look pretty cute in one of those fancy police / writer bullet-proof vests - personalized especially for me, of course!!

Okay, so I SERIOUSLY need one of these!
Medic alert tag meets bullet-proof armor - to keep me safe from bad guys AND bad lows!!

The only problem is that sadly, the case would end up going unsolved.  Even after interviewing the top scientists in the field, we wouldn’t ever know what caused the death of that poor pancreas.  We would end up sending the crime to the Cold Islet Case Files.  My work as a dia-consultant would prove to be as useless as a bottle of insulin left on the beach in July.  But hey,  it wouldn’t be a total loss.  Because a sweet sweet day spent hanging with Rick Castle sure would be bolus-worthy, now wouldn’t it?