This is what I wanted to say to the doctor when I left today:
No, I will not be coming back here or ever asking you another question. Ever. I don’t want to waste my time or money. I’m busy. Today, I was on deadline. I got up early just so I could finish work and come to see you. I hoped you might demonstrate more knowledge than a Google search, but I was wrong. If you’re going to pretend to be a sports medicine doctor, you really ought to have more knowledge of sports medicine than I do. And I don’t even know more than Steve. Don’t give me some bullshit lecture on shit I’ve known about running since I was 16 (and I didn’t know crap about sports physiology when I was 16) and act like its scientific medical advice, you crack. I had specific questions, three of them, and you couldn’t give anything better than vague, unhelpful and condescending non-answers. Then you actually told me not to interrupt you? I wouldn’t interrupt if what you were saying was worthwhile. Way to make a frustrating and difficult situation worse, you never-was hack. I want my $50 back.
That’s what I wanted to say but, since I’m not actually a terrible person and I couldn’t stop thinking of the Seinfield episode where Elaine’s doctor writes that she’s “difficult” in her chart, I just glared at him and tried not to cry.