had a dream about James Spader cleaning my room and woke up crusty

I've been solidly sick since Tuesday morning. Alls I wanted from the Searle quacks was some sweet, sweet pennicillan. The one doctor they have on staff during the summer must be some kind of "holistic healer" or "all-shamans-all-the-time kinda lady" or something since she insisted that my torrential tonsils would shrink down all by their lonesome and that ibuprophen and sudafed (i.e. wal-phrophen and wal-phed since I'm both between paychecks and a sensible suburban lassie learned in the ways of the generic) would take care of anything at which my formidible immune system balks. Little did she know that underneath my gleaming half-smirk is an immune system riddled with as many holes as tenant housing with a rat problem and that all I eat are things apple-related or with the word "wafer" on the packaging.

Both times I went in there this week all I was looking for was a little immunological pick-me-up. Gimme a pack of gel tabs - or, even better, some hardy horse pills. Hook me up with some perscription nose spray, baby, and make it $40 and not covered by my insurance. Oh yeah. As long as I'm paying out-of-pocket, out of my punny would-be new pants money, it'll cure what ails me. Talk about beef curtains for my uvula - my tonsils are engorged with so much sweet, sweet fluid that I can't fight its pulsating disease machine on my own. But lady told me to put on my immuno-rally cap, drink some orange juice and wait it out.



I was coughing and leaking out of every hole in my head last night, watching Sex, Lies and Videotape until 4am because I couldn't doze off, just to wake up next to the fire hazard that is my computer with my left eye crusted shut. The hot water hasn't been working in my apartment for the past week and a half, so I heated up a towel of mine in the microwave, stuck that sucker on my eye and dial, dial, dialed the emergency number at Searle. Granted, this isn't an emergency, but it was really satisfying to feel like I woke up the doctor on call so he could prescribe my precious eye drops. It sounded like the same guy who prescribed me my emergency steroids during mono time in december, which marked my last tango with Searle hall. And that ended with 15 days of roid rage.