My parents have always been hypochondriacs.  I spent a good deal of my childhood waiting around in the lobbies of doctors’ offices while they were checked out for influenza, cancer, bipolar disorders, and whatever plague was making headlines on the news for that month.  To kill time, I often sifted through all the health brochures and sometimes the nurses or receptionists would give me something to play with like a free diabetes test kit.  Before they did that though, they always remembered to take out the needle or anything else sharp that I might cut myself with or hurt somebody else.  It wouldn’t help if I got a paper cut off one of the brochures, but I would get bored reading them and start folding them up into random shapes.  And, yeah, I occasionally threw them at other people sitting down in the lobby.  Most people laughed it off or ignored it completely.  It must have helped that I was a little kid and should obviously have been off playing in the park somewhere instead of withering away in a dull lobby.   At least I know why I was never any good at sports or camping.  How could anyone have expected me to?