You know those last few pages of Into The Wild where Chris McCandless is deliriously scribbling his final, dying thoughts into his journal before taking his last, raspy breath? Yeah well that's what it's been like around here the last couple of days. I can't say for certain, but I highly suspect that yesterday's fever was the equivalent of seventeen full length Grateful Dead shows in terms of brain damage sustained and not only is it now confirmed that I will be waddling around in enormous Adult Diapers by the time I'm 80 but I'm also going to be on dialysis because I straight up blew out my kidneys with Nyquil.
So, for the record, Dengue/Scarlet/Small Pox/Yellow Fever sucks and I highly recommend not getting it. Really. Much like Meth, it's retarded to even try. It's probably better to put your head in a blender, I can promise you it would feel better.
And! AND. While I was probably going to stay home today anyway, milking the phenomenal level of sympathy and kindness of my preceptors for all it was worth, as it turns out today is an official snow day and we were given the day off. Officially, and shit. Because New Yorkers are unbelievably woosey and can't negotiate life in the city with 4 inches of snow. And hur-friggen-ray.
So now I'm going to bake a cake. Because tacking at a body temperature of 103.2 F for 96 hours burns you some calories, yo.
