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You know, the waiting room is where all the action happens. You're sitting there, surrounded by people who are convinced they're one sneeze away from the zombie apocalypse. The guy next to me is Googling his symptoms on his phone, and I'm pretty sure he's convinced he has a rare disease only found in the deep jungles of the Amazon. Then there's that one person who insists on striking up a conversation. "What are you in for?" they ask. And suddenly, you're sharing your life story with a total stranger. "Oh, just a check-up, but my left knee has been making this weird sound lately." And now we're bonding over joint noises. It's like a weird support group for the hypochondriacally inclined.
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You ever notice how going to the doctor is like entering an alternate universe? You walk in there, and suddenly, you're in this weird waiting room where time stands still. You're flipping through magazines from 1997, wondering if Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston are still a power couple. So, I go to the doctor, right? The nurse weighs me, takes my blood pressure, does the whole routine. And then the doctor walks in like he's the wizard of the medical kingdom. He looks at my chart, looks at me, and says, "You need to lose weight." No small talk, no "How's the weather?" Just a straight-up diagnosis of my life choices.
And I'm thinking, "Doc, if I wanted harsh truths, I'd call my mom. At least she'd throw in a compliment about my hair.
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Can we talk about the magazines in the waiting room? I don't know who chooses those, but it's like they raided a time capsule from the '90s. I'm flipping through a magazine older than my car, and there's a headline like, "The Internet: A Fad or the Future?" Yeah, it's the future, alright – the future of outdated reading material. And what's with the celebrity gossip? "Guess which star is dating who?" I don't know, and at this point, I'm not sure I care. I'm just trying to figure out if my name will ever be called so I can escape this time warp.
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Doctors and their prescriptions, they might as well be writing in hieroglyphics. I get handed this piece of paper, and I'm deciphering it like it's the Da Vinci Code. Is this a medication or a secret message to join a spy agency? I take the prescription to the pharmacy, and the pharmacist looks at it like he's solving a puzzle. He's squinting, scratching his head, and finally, he says, "Oh, you need the generic version." And I'm like, "Great! As long as it doesn't turn me into a generic version of myself.
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