I hurt my finger pretty bad at the doctor’s office on Friday. It’s still a little sore.

I had arrived for my appointment a half-hour early. My new insurance, which, thankfully, covers more than just acts of god and freak kangaroo related injuries (which is more than I can say about my last insurance), had finally kicked in. I was certain there would be paperwork, mountains of paperwork. I imagined I’d be sitting in the waiting room for half an hour, filling out invasive forms on a clipboard with one of those triangular pens that the drug companies give away.

Much to my surprise, the entire process is now streamlined. They simply scanned my insurance card, and we were done. Thanks to modern technology, patients can now spend more time waiting for the doctor. So now I was a half-hour early for an appointment that the doctor would be a half-hour late for. I read one entire issue of Entertainment Weekly and half of one issue of People.

I found Entertainment Weekly to be mildly entertaining, offering brief snippets on Hollywood, music, and even literature. On the other hand, you cannot fathom the immensity of the fuck I did not give about the crap they publish in People.

You want to read an issue of People? Let me sum up the a year’s worth of “news.” J. Lo, divorced, married, divorced, married, divorced. Paris Hilton, wrote a book from the “point of view” of her dog. Readers are convinced that the dog actually wrote it. Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp, still so “dreamy,” after all these years. Jessica Simpson’s nipples, releasing their own album this fall.

Anyway, I was finally called in. The nurse rushed me into the examination room and took my blood pressure. Then she left. And I was waiting again. And waiting. There were no magazines in there. I was forced to seek amusement in thumb wrestling myself.

Eventually I stood up started poking around at the various novelties around the room. I pressed the model of the lower spine against my back, just to see if it was to scale. I inflated and deflated the blood pressure sleeve twice. I began poking around in the drawers. Open backed gowns, rubber gloves, tongue depressors. At that moment, there was a knock and the door was opened. I slammed the drawer full of tongue depressors closed, and in doing so smashed my finger. I let out a grunt, but managed to hide my pain when the doctor peeked his head in.

“I’ll be right with you.” He said.

I gave him a smile and nod, and then sat back down, nursing my finger. I decided not to explore anymore, I had been taught a lesson.