Like most fifteen year olds with purple, spiky hair and dog collars around their neck, I hated high school. When I found out my friend had mono, I plopped down next to her in the cafeteria and promptly stole her grape soda, swishing the infected liquid around in my mouth. A few weeks later, my throat was so swollen I couldn't even swallow my spit. My mom bought me this bright green medicine that tasted like weed killer, which I sprayed in the back of my mouth to numb the pain. It was excruciating, but totally worth it. For almost two months, I missed tons of school. I painted my room red. I made necklaces out of Lego's. I failed aerobics. I snuck out and claimed I was too sick to go to class, when really I was just hungover. It was awesome.
Like most twenty-three year olds with a job and bills to pay, I have to work even when I'm sick. So at the beginning of this long weekend, when I started shivering and sweating, I forced myself back to my apartment, crawled into bed, and stayed there for three days. Feeling like I’d been stabbed, repeatedly in the ears and throat, I could not enjoy an amazing show at the Music Hall of Williamsburg, a housewarming get-together in Greenpoint, or a loft party at my own apartment with crazy French and Bulgarians. I did, however, acquire a new doctor in Chinatown who giggled at my attempts to obtain “yuppie” medicine, arrive to my place of employment punctually and smiley this morning, and learn that I have friends that will deliver pain killers, magazines, soup, tea and new, cute and stolen underwear while risking their lives with the threat of strep throat, without even being asked.
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