Doctors' office waiting rooms: Portals to the underworld??

So, I'm aware that I haven't been as dedicated to my blog as I should be and I wanted to dedicate this post to apologize and explaining to my loyal readers why I've taken such a lengthy break. I have been stuck for what seems like an eternity in what can only be described as the worse place on the face of the earth. 

Doctors office waiting rooms. 

Between pick-up duty for my grandparents and time spent waiting for optometrists I've logged in more hours than I can count in these terrible little transitional rooms. Enough time that I've been able to contemplate and hypothesize what the areas are really all about. They're clearly meant to be acclimate souls to the tortures of Hades. 

I don't understand how else to explain how so many evil things could be concentrated in one tiny area. Sick people spewing their germs around the enclosed room with every cough or sneeze. An endless supply of magazines; all ending in "Fancy" (Dog Fancy, Bird Fancy, Horse Fancy, Cat Fancy. Seriously? Seriously there are people who need new literature about birds every other month?) Receptionists that may as well be Beelzebub himself with their sneering looks, hauty attitudes and sheer distaste for humanity (not to mention the horns peeking through their crunchy permed curls). I mean, it just makes sense that waiting rooms are in actuality entrances to the fires of hell. I don't know how else to explain it. 

The Stop and Chat

I had a Larry David moment at the grocery store today.

As I was walking down the aisles I briefly glanced my friend's mother (an unbelievably chatty and all around terrible woman to run into) as I was INNOCENTLY doing my shopping. My heart was paralyzed for a minute as my blood ran cold in my veins. As far as I was concerned I was left with only two options; I could a) run at a breakneck pace to the disposable razors and attempt to slit my wrist or b) slink around the store, attempting to hide behind pyramids of canned goods, contorting myself into shelves between toilet paper and window cleaner. There was simply no way I could put myself through the brain-numbing torture that is five minutes of small talk. Sure, that would have been the mature, "right" thing to do. I just. I just couldn't. I just couldn't put myself through it. 

I was in that grocery store nearly forty-five minutes longer than I needed to be. It was a nerve-wracking 3/4 of an hour punctuated by flashes of fear when I spotted the target, but I considered it a victory. A victory, that is, until I recounted the triumph to my family. Unbelievably, they considered my feat a 'waste of time' and 'terrible way to treat a person'. Yes, hiding may have taken longer than actually speaking to the woman and yes, I guess it was a little rude, but. I mean. It HAD to be done. No?