Quit trying to kill me, Meredith Grey

I can haz boyfren?

So technically, being a fictional character, Meredith Grey can't kill me any more than Chuck Bass can escape Gossip Girl and sweep me off my feet in a whirlwind of passionate romance/sex. That doesn't mean I don't dream about the latter, and that, no surprise, the former is a recurring character in my nightmares.

Like most patients, I want my doctor to be slightly more interested in, say, the possible amputation of my leg, than in exhaustively analyzing the most recent conversation she had with a boy. Dr. Grey not only likes boys a lot, she springs inane monologues about them on every patient too incapacited to make a decent escape attempt.

Coma patient? Meredith will wonder if Derek will ever "wake up" the way your son wants you to. Brain dead? Meredith will sit by your breathing corpse and recount all the ways her relationship is just "being kept alive", like you.

Also, I wouldn't call myself a premature baby expert, but I don't know if, developmentally, something that came straight from the womb is ready to process the doc's reluctance to "let go and trust again." And even though she wisely steers clear of anything spry enough to pull its own plug, I wouldn't be suprised if she's slapped with an Assisted Suicide suit after one of her heartfelt romance run-downs saps up the last of granny's will to live.

Putting Meredith's Deep Thoughts aside, how many different ways can you contort your face to indicate a perpetual state of Deep Dissatisfaction? Her binary emotional range can express any feeling from kind of upset, to pretty upset.

Basically, the only symptom that might drag me into Seattle Grace Hospital is profuse eyeball bleeding, and even then I might try to walk it off.