So how do you condense four days into a handful of brief, waking hours? You go to San Francisco. That's what I did, anyway. Since I got back from the city, I've been dead, more or less. I'm tired. I'm cold and hot, alternately. I'm dizzy. And I'm suffering from the unreasonable fear that I'll turn my upper torso too sharply and snap my spine off from my tailbone.
Oh, and my right lymph node is doing this awesome impersonation of a golf ball. You should see it. Really.
Should I blame the smoking in San Francisco? The chilly fog that I, by all acounts, should have expected but did not? Tainted butter lettuce cups delivered with a smile by Morgan? (Morgan!)
I finally went to the doctor today and he diagnosed my affliction as "some type of infection" and then prescribed penicillin, which if funny because I could have made a similar diagnosis — with my English degree. I'm tired of doctors not ever naming my diseases, like when I got Mystery Mono last year. Instead of learned medical opinion, I'm getting more along the lines of "I don't know what you have but lets slop some penicillin on it and see what happens." I did find out what my temperature is — 101.6 degrees — but technically it was the nice lady who saw me before the doctor that did that.
In any case, the my state of sickness is what's preventing me from returning to Santa Barbara. I've honestly been too dizzy to drive, the mailbox and mailman I flattened on the way to the doctor's office being proof of this.
Pray for me.