Screw You and Your Immune System.

I'm sick. No, I'm not bitching, I'm actually sick. Sick as in the Y was so concerned just by the weakened state of my voice that she took my temperature. I insisted that this was unnecessary, but I guess I was wrong because it came out to something a little over 102 degrees, which, according to the Y (resident expert in over-worrying about illnesses -- a little quirk for which I am now very grateful) is "hella high." Then she gave me some Nyquil, so I'm just typing fast now in a race against sweet medication-induced sleep.

Why am I writing instead of sleeping or mentally railing against my usually reliable immune system? Ah, college. I turned in at the early hour of 10:30 after watching a sneak preview of Zombieland, after which I felt so ache-y that I practically sprinted home and then stood in a scalding hot shower for thirty minutes solely because I couldn't find the energy to towel off. Then, at 12:15 AM, I was awoken by the sounds of drunken revelry outside my window. Thursday night on frat row. I tried to be understanding, I really really did. I tried really hard not to imagine the students outside as raucous zombies and me as Woody Harrelson with four pistols and two machine guns. I told myself that surely I've had nights like that, where I was just the right amount of drunk to enjoy walking and not notice the volume of my voice, and hey, it wasn't their fault I was sick, right? Then I hear from outside some drunken jerk slur, "that guy is a faggot-retarded faggot." Okay. I would never say that. A girl chimes in, "hey guys, I'm going to pop a squat in about five steps. Okay, I'm popping a squat!"

They were lucky I was having difficulty even getting myself to sit up, much less be in any position to pour burning oil out my window.

The thing I hate most about being sick -- more than the feeling that my head is wrapped in really hot cotton, more than the whole freezing-without-blankets-burning-up-with dilemma-- is that I become a huge brat. I mean, more than usual, if you can imagine. I'm kidding. I'm usually very good, if I do say so myself. I mean, I'll occasionally throw a minor tantrum, but it's nothing compared to what I'm like when I'm sick.

Take, for example, Jamerz and Teenie and I in line for Zombieland. "You don't have swine flu," Teenie insists. "you don't even have a fever." (Oh, how wrong she was proved to be). "I'M DYING," I wail, causing multiple heads to turn and the strangers nearest to me to back away. "I'M GOING TO BE DEAD IN A FEW HOURS AND THE LAST THING I DID WAS STAND IN A REALLY LONG LINE." James chuckled. "You're funny when you're sick," he said. What I think he really meant was "thank god my girlfriend doesn't get like this."

I'm fairly certain that my mystery sickness escalated in severity solely because no one (with the later exception of the Y) sympathized. When I walked to class with Mango in the morning, his idea of being comforting was something along the lines of: "No, you're not dying. Yes, you can make it up those stairs. What do you mean you can't, it's only twelve flights. No, you're not going to throw up." And this was before he started imitating me ("Oh, I'm soo sick. Oh I'm going to die. Oh my head feels like it's going to implode.") Cruel? Certainly. Unusual? Unfortunately not. It turned out to not be a departure from anyone else's reactions throughout the day.

In my class today the only person I knew didn't even attend lecture, so I had no one who could even pretend to care. Talk about inconsiderate.

At work Arrow did not evince much concern for my state (apparently snacking on Funyons and Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies is not a symptom of illness-- excuse me for missing lunch), but he did offer me a Tylenol. This is probably what sedated me for when Tando messaged me, saying "you're not dying" -- this in reference to my facebook status ("I'm dying I'm dying D: someone medicate me"). It was not exactly the kind of comfort a girl would like to receive on her deathbed.

Okay, I'm going to stop typing because my fingers are getting so warm I can't feel them anymore (sad? yes, welcome to the life of an invalid). I'll set this post to automatically publish tomorrow night so that if I die you'll all have something to remember me by. Oh, and try not to dance on my grave. But if you must -- absolutely no square dancing. I mean it.