Ah. Is there anything more obnoxious than waiting in the lobby of the doc, only to be taken into a room by a nurse, cuffed up, poked at, questioned... and then left for like 20 minutes in the small, sterile, plasticky-smelling room waiting for the doctor (i.e. your fate)?
Listen. I'm not expert on home decor or medical solace, but these posters haven't changed since I was 18. There's nothing glaring at me but the see-through jar of oversized Popsicle sticks, a "Cover Your Cough" poster printed out on an 8.5 x 11 and the ugly, scribbled on "What Is Your BMI?" chart reminding me, disappointingly, that I am "overweight.
So. With all of this in mind, by the time doc gets here, I'm ready to jump ship. Fuck.
To add to the glamour of this visit, coming here to switch anti-depression meds, I get asked if I want my "living will." Hahaha. Talk about being faced with my own mortality. I say. Do not recessitate!
