I assumed I'd have to wait until the next day before a doctor could see me. Doctors rarely work past five, it's one of the benefits of the job. I figured I'd get a little online research done so I was ready to attack the problem head on in the morning. But my sense of adventure kicked in when I found a doctor who was open until five, accepted walk-ins and was a mere nine-minute cab ride from my apartment. Excitedly, I navigated to the clinic's list of patient requirements.

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As expected, I was informed that I would need a California driver's license or identification card. Cool, because I just spent an hour getting one, glad I didn't waste my time. Next, I was informed that if I didn't have a California ID, I could just bring anything that proves I live there, like a lease agreement. Fuck, I wasted my time.

It was also suggested that I bring something proving that I have some sort of medical disorder that marijuana is capable of treating. Like any other writer, I have a prescription for antidepressants. This marked the first time in recorded history that they've ever been of any benefit to me. I grabbed a pill bottle and headed out to hail a cab. It was 4:45.

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After seven minutes of listening to a homeless man alternately ask me for change and assure me that I'd never catch a cab at this hour in San Francisco, I had resigned myself to the fact that I was not going to make it to the drug doctor in time. Eventually, the homeless man asked me where I was going and, dejected at what appeared to be my impending failure to hail a cab, I explained that I was on my way to get a prescription for medical marijuana. He informed me that it was best to just buy it on the street. I replied that I had no doubt that this was true, but, as a professional, I had to play by the book. He indicated that he understood by farmer-blowing a gigantic nose oyster onto the pavement and then went on to explain that he got his weed card at a clinic "about a mile from here." I took the fact that he was able to remember the name of the place through the thick fog of an obvious malt liquor binge as a sign that things could possibly be breaking my way. I looked it up on Yelp and found that I could schedule an appointment online for 5:15 p.m. Google Maps assured me that it would be only an 18-minute walk. By my math, I figured that would put me at the doctor with about three minutes to spare. I was officially living inside of a smartphone commercial that co-starred a scene-stealing hobo. The adventure was back on!