-Of all the places you’ve ever been half-naked, the doctor’s office is most likely the least fun. You’re uncomfortable, cold, and being groped and grilled with questions about your sexual history. It’s like a one-night stand gone horribly, horribly wrong. My biggest concern, though, about going to the doctor, is that everything seems so exposed. The other people in the waiting room know something is wrong with you, the pharmacists know what medicine you’re taking, and my doctor types her notes into a computer that’s seen by God-knows-who. Increasingly, receiving quality healthcare means sacrificing some modicum of privacy. Our only choice, it seems, is the public option.

-Since I'm a borderline hypochondriac, I always tell my doctor about every minor bump or discoloration I’ve discovered in the past year. To assuage my unfounded fears, she sometimes shows me that she too possesses a few harmless marks on her skin. That doesn’t really make feel any better, Doc. Now we both might be dying.

-I receive healthcare at a facility in Los Angeles that also serves the Screen Actors Guild, so every once in a while I’ll spot a minor celebrity in the waiting room. Instead of thinking, “I wonder what he’s got,” I think, “Hey, isn’t that guy the 7th lead on 30 Rock?” And then: “I wonder what he’s got.”

-I plan on sending my cardiologist bill directly to the designer who placed the switch for the lights in my kitchen right next to the switch for the garbage disposal.