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Reality At 37 Degrees Celcius Is Strange
I am sick. My throat, which is has always been a regular patron of the dreaded throat infection has been acting up all weekend. For some reason, the doctor refuses to give me antibiotics prefering instead to comment on my swollen lymph nodes.
One of the hardest feats of living alone is how to cope when you fall ill. If you are too sick to leave your bed, then however will you leave the house to purchase any food? And so it was that I had a raging fever that rendered me bed-ridden and spiralling slowly down into hallucinations. It has been nearly 18 hours since my last meal, and I have been subsisting mainly on some leftover Mirinda orange squash and Jacob’s low-salt high-fiber wheat crackers - all of which have already lao huang.
I tell my gf on the phone after my fever breaks at 11pm, “I don’t like living alone”. After that the fever returns and I huddle under the sheets, my forehead coated slick with sweat. I begin to hallucinate about Stephen King’s last installment of The Dark Tower which I begin to suspect may be a true story at 37 degrees celcius.
I’m going to see the doctor again now. If he won’t give me antibiotics, I am walking out without paying and going to a different clinic.
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