Today, I had to go to the doctor for my injured foot. As avid readers of this journal may recall, I twisted it two weeks ago while walking in Central Park with Goblin. It has pained me off and on (mostly on) since that time.

My doctor did not do anything for it, but then again, my doctor never seems to do much of anything. That is fine both because I adore her and because I think she would prescribe any substance at my request.

Her assistant is another matter. His name is Angel (English pronunciation, not Spanish), and he never seems to do much of anything, either, but he is much crankier about it. While I was there today, he spent the whole time muttering to himself about how badly the doctor treated him and about how "I work so hard, and all I get is negativity." This from the same man who made a life-threatening error with my boyfriend's prescription and who failed to send a referral to my cardiologist, the lack of which could have resulted in hundreds of dollars of out-of-pocket fees.

Anyway, the only other people I have ever seen mutter to themselves are crazy people. There was one right outside my window as I was leaving for my appointment, as a matter of fact. Someone had put an air conditioner in the trash, and he was beating it with a stick in an attempt to pry it open.

My x-rays are due back tomorrow. Wish me luck.