Word: bladders
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When, for instance, does a urinary tract (bladder) infection become a pyelonephritis (infection involving kidneys and ureters)? There's no clear-cut answer. But when the computer reminds the doctor, every time he clicks on the "urinary tract infection" button, that the hospital gets many thousands more for the more serious condition, it's just as easy to click on the "pyelonephritis" button and make your administrators happy...
...rather, that arrives and departs, that denudes the earth, transforms it into a moonscape, which then comes back, which recovers it.” Later on, though, her poetry varies greatly: “Their wings lack hands. / Their mouths lack teeth. / Their pelvises lack a bladder.” Étienne reinterprets the “sonnet” as a structure based not around meter or rhyme but emotion. For her, the restrictions of the sonnet are restrictions meant to be overcome. The interactions between theater and life also occupies a central place in this universe...
...sense of the domino effect here. You put a bullet through a man's spine, all kinds of things happen. Tomas has bowel and bladder issues. Tomas has erectile dysfunction-28 years old, in the prime of his life. What we're saying with this film is that what you see with Tomas is a drama taking place behind the closed doors of thousands of homes in this country. Thousands. We're trying to show the reality of this war, which is the most sanitized war in our lifetime...
...Gist:Barlow is not a half-assed carnivore. An expatriate Brit who relocated to the Galician town of his Spaniard wife, he launches himself on a foolhardy mission: travel around northwest Spain and eat as much pig as possible. Snout, marrow, heart, bladder, head-all of it. Along the way, he tells the tale of Galicia, a cold, rainy, and stubbornly independent piece of Spain on the Atlantic Ocean. It is "a patchwork of small, low-intensity farms...real working countryside" and home to Don Quixote's Miguel de Cervantes, longtime Spanish dictator General Francisco Franco, and the Castro family...
...Each morning this summer, I was awoken up by the sound of Billy’s tail vehemently whipping the side of his crate. Try as I might to ignore it, with my short nerves and his small bladder, I’d soon be out of bed and embracing the morning. With no innate understanding of the wrong side of the bed, Billy would wake up each morning charged and eager to take on the day, and I quickly grew accustomed to the smell of kibble before coffee. Before long, not only had I surrendered my New York Times...