You might be happy to know that I made it back to New York in one piece, and without even having to vomit out of the window of any moving vehicles. I met a very nice boy on the plane who insisted over and over again that I should come over to his house, but then his ears started popping and he had to sit in his mom’s lap and hold his blanket until he could stop crying on his own. There is a lesson here that I am too tired to learn.
My good friend Lauren is visiting me for a few days, but she woke up this morning with her throat swollen shut and talking like Marlon Brando. I pulled out my flashlight, looked down her throat, and proclaimed it strep, but she wasn’t having any of my amateur diagnoses, nor did she appreciate my assertions that perhaps it was “BJ-itis” on account of her “giving it out to all them graffiti guys.” After a lengthy visit to the Beth Israel Medical Center’s Minor Emergency Room, where the doctor took one look down her throat, proclaimed it strep, and then shot her ass full of penicillin, I briefly considered a career in medicine, but then I remembered how I get lightheaded while taking my own pulse and decided to try my luck with this whole unemployed thing a bit longer.