You knew going in that the doctor’s office wasn’t the most painless of places to write - flummoxed mothers prying information/symptoms/something out of their sick children so they can give the doctor their armchair-physician’s opinion... Is it uncommonly hot in here or are you feverish? Is that girl’s voice horrifically jarring or are you hyper-tense? Is that woman hovering over you or are you paranoid? Fuck that. The thermostat is blasting hot air out of the vents like a jet-engine, that girl’s voice could crack concrete, and that woman is READING WHAT YOU’RE WRITING?! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? Calm; calm down. Think of yourself as operating on one battery’s power in a two-battery system. The more effort you extend yelling at simpletons, the less you’ll have in reserve...which could most certainly make for one hair-raising drive home. Relax; think of your accidental foray into a poor-man’s sensory deprivation chamber, when you slid in the tub and found yourself submerged in bubbly-water but for your nose...remember? No noise, no nincompoops, no nonsense...just a welcoming placid bliss. Are you cool? Yes, the doctor stared at your tattoos when she rolled up your sleeve to take your blood pressure, but you’re 128 over 80, and that discovery was punctuated with a "perfect" from the doctor, so you’re good. Yes, she prescribed some anti-anxiety pills and asked that you get a cardiogram & some blood-work done, but they’re precautionary...so take it easy. And I mean that - no more of this 8-cups-of-coffee-a-day business, no more smoking like you’re hiding a coal-burning stove in your belly, no more speedballs shot into that overworked vein just below your left ankle... Wait. That’s someone else. Who am I talking to?