So the results are in: the doctors tell me I may have celiac disease, which means I'm sensitive to wheat gluten. I'm on the high end of having a mild sensitivity. I know this because "they have a test for it now," as the RN I saw at Columbia Med Services told me.

Wait, wait. Back that sh!t up. "They have a test for it now." As in, until recently there was no simple test for wheat gluten sensitivity. The RN told me this when I asked why so many more people appear to be wheat gluten intolerant than when I was a kid.

As in, more people are sick now because we have the means to diagnose and treat them? Mmmmm. Sounds familiar.

(Speaking of which, if you're looking to put money on a horse in the Next Invented Pervasive Psychological Syndrome Derby, my money's on Insomnia, with AmBien up, and the racing syndicate backing it: Sanofi-Synthelabo. I say this because as a proofreader two summers back I saw the legwork Sanofi was putting into identifying the reasons doctors would prescribe anti-insomnia drugs for their patients. Plus, an article I recently read (dammit, don't have the cite) suggested that insomnia was set to become the next depression...)

So needless to say, I'm more than a little disheartened; over the course of the day I've sunk into a pretty deep funk. Aside from being vegetarian, I am generally not one to refrain from eating whatever the hell I want. Good food makes me happy; life is depressing enough without having to eat food which drags on the soul. La vie est dure sans confiture, as an elderly French gentleman said to me once. It's why I've always been suspicious of vegans; they suck the joy out of everything. ("Cookies? Sure, shall we use the recipe with the carob and oat milk, or just stick with moistened gypsum and rat turds? Nobody will notice the difference.")

The nurse assured me that the nutritionist on the Columbia is very good at coaching people about how to eat around these issues. This is really depressing, I told him.

It's sad, isn't it? said the student accompanying him today, who'd just gotten an earful about my problems with bloating and flatulence.

No, you don't understand, I told them. I love bread. Sylvie and I used to be called the White Bread Sisters, because that was all we'd eat. I am seriously picky about my bread. I like CRUST. I won't eat Pepperidge Farm, much less the joyless bricks of spelt and quinoa they sell at the co-op.

The student pulled a sad face at me. It's kind of like saying goodbye to your teddy bear, isn't it? she said. I agreed.

It was a catchy line. I stood mulling it, staring at a motivational poster behind the receptionist ("ATTITUDE/We cannot direct the wind/but we can adjust our sails") as she scheduled me an appointment with the nutritionist.

By the time I'd walked halfway across campus I'd digested the line enough to realize it stood out not because it rang true, but because it was completely outrageous. "Saying goodbye to your teddy bear"? She seemed to feel I was kissing off a comfort food. Look, we're talking about the motherfucking STAFF of LIFE, here! It's not chocolate or booze! I'm not just giving the shit up for Lent!

Why are so many people sensitive to wheat gluten? An article I just read said it was about one in three hundred of us. With the number of people I know who have been diagnosed as celiac (my father, a classmate, a former boss, friends of friends), I somehow seem to know more than my share. You better be damn sure I'll be writing an article about this come summertime. I am getting to the bottom of this. And you bet your boots that I will sue the everloving shit out of Monsanto and Archer Daniels Midland if it turns out genetically modified wheat is involved in the rise in celiac cases. Do you hear that, motherfuckers? Watch your bloated corporate backsides -- I am COMING FOR YOU.