Have I mentioned lately that being uninsured totally rocks? No, really: it does. You see, we freelance serfs have to pay for our medical treatments (shock therapy and the like) in cash. Obviously, I'd rather save my hard-earned sheckels for that Audi discount Conde Nast is offering up (I'm practically an employee, so I'm sure I qualify), but lately, the phlegm I've been wresting from my lungs has started to look like something resembling roadkill.

So I sucked it up and called one of those doctor thingies everyone keeps going on about. I contacted several clinics, actually, all of which quickly asked if I had insurance. Often, as soon as they heard the word, "cash," I was wordlessly put on hold for up to 20 minutes. I couldn't believe it—don't they know I'm white?! Or, even better, the receptionist would make a disapproving clucking noise and transfer me to three or four different people, all of whom would then immediately transfer me to someone else. It was seriously awesome, no lie. The two hours on the phone spent trying to merely secure a visit was so much fun that I'm never going back to insurance again.