![we [met in] the park](http://oi43.tinypic.com/2ds0bbr.jpg)
It's 10:42am (that's early for the summer, right?) and I am at the doctor's office. Well, specifically in the waiting room. I forget how terrible these places can be. I forgot to bring a book with me. The magazines are as riveting as "TV Guide Magazine" could possibly be, so naturally I haven't touched them. There is a television on. It's muted, but I wouldn't want to hear what is on it anyway because the only thing on the screen is a loop of either doctor biographies or random health facts. Did you know low folic acid levels can lead to birth defects occurring within the first 28 days of pregnancy? I will keep that in mind for when I am freshly pregnant and come into contact with a vat of folic acid.
I feel so stereotypically teenager because I have to resort to my phone for entertainment. I am the archetype of this generation. Ohgod, I even have my college t-shirt on.
Nearby, there is a table for kids on which lie various coloring books. I am tempted to hang out there and do some coloring, but the plastic red chairs look frighteningly weak and I don't want to end up falling on my ass in front of—well, in front of a senile couple and a toddler, so I guess the audience isn't particularly judgmental. Except for the kid.
Now the guy sitting next to me is playing a video on his phone of some infant doing something adorable. I know this not because I can see the screen but because the volume is so damn loud. The infant's name is Harry, apparently. Thank you for taking all of us on a ride into your personal life, fellow waiting room resident! May you be blessed for your tactless inconsideration of the established silence in here.
I feel like Hell would actually be this particular waiting room, only without—gasp, be still my beating, technologically-savvy and cyber-connected heart—my cell phone.
Oh joy, they finally called me in. Butchered my name as usual. I don't blame them. I should wear a shirt that says "Metin, as in, we met in the park."
I feel so stereotypically teenager because I have to resort to my phone for entertainment. I am the archetype of this generation. Ohgod, I even have my college t-shirt on.
Nearby, there is a table for kids on which lie various coloring books. I am tempted to hang out there and do some coloring, but the plastic red chairs look frighteningly weak and I don't want to end up falling on my ass in front of—well, in front of a senile couple and a toddler, so I guess the audience isn't particularly judgmental. Except for the kid.
Now the guy sitting next to me is playing a video on his phone of some infant doing something adorable. I know this not because I can see the screen but because the volume is so damn loud. The infant's name is Harry, apparently. Thank you for taking all of us on a ride into your personal life, fellow waiting room resident! May you be blessed for your tactless inconsideration of the established silence in here.
I feel like Hell would actually be this particular waiting room, only without—gasp, be still my beating, technologically-savvy and cyber-connected heart—my cell phone.
Oh joy, they finally called me in. Butchered my name as usual. I don't blame them. I should wear a shirt that says "Metin, as in, we met in the park."
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