faking sick? cool. really sick? not so much.
September 29, 2003, 1:35 pm

As you sit quietly at your computer screen, waiting to chuckle over my hijinks from last night, I am slowly trying to embalm myself with NyQuil. And TylenolFlu. And Robitussin (on Chris Rock's recommendation). And whatever else I can pump into my snot-addled, sore, achy, sniffly, blistered, pale, miserable, unhealthy body.

Friday had promise. I did tell you that I had a sore throat, but determined not to turn down an invitation to party with the Shore Boyz downyeasternshorehon (translation for non-Maryland folk: Down on Maryland's Eastern Shore, across the Bay Bridge, where the Shore Boyz dwell), I faked that I was fine despite an increasing fever and opted to medicate myself with beer instead. Lots of beer. I mean, A LOT of beer.

When I was in college (stop me if you've heard this story before), I tried to get out of Monday Night Football with a bunch of guys that I hung out with by giving the "I'm sick" song and dance. Andy, who was quite older and legally allowed to drink, gave me a lecture I've never since forgotten:

"Jess," he said to me as I coughed, "What are your plans now that you're not coming over here to watch the game?"

"Uh (cough, hack, sniffle), I guess take some NyQuil and go to bed," I sneezed back.

"Exactly," he said, "Jess, what's the number one ingredient in NyQuil? ALCOHOL. Might as well come over here and have a good time while making yourself better."

So fine, Andy, I would take your advice for Friday night. And I DID feel better once I'd had a couple, and I did feel fantastic once I didn't care how badly my throat felt since I could no longer really feel my throat, and I DID feel GREAT when I could no longer feel my legs with any certainty.

Ryan the Funeral Director and his wife, Sarah, took the collective drunk asses of the Shore Boyz (mine among them) back to their apartment (which is, incidentally, above the Funeral Home). Realizing I had forgotten Ryan the Funeral Director's birthday, I warbled my way through the drunkest rendition of "If You're Good To Mama" (whatever the title is) from Chicago for him, and that drew a few laughs. What made us laugh harder was the idiotic fight that broke out because all of a sudden Brad was bitter he wasn't in college anymore and he started some stuff with everyone. Well, he was mainly pissed off because Jason and Ryan ripped his pants literally off his body.

Speaking of Jason, he tried to grope me in the back of his truck when I managed to pass out there. Yeah, I wasn't exactly having any of that, and was super-pleased to see his wife pull up and escort his drunk ass home.

Sam the Farmer and I slept in the living room, after Ryan assured me that there were no "guests" downstairs. There are many things I tend to find funny when drunk (okay, all the time), but accidentally bumping into a casket and disturbing the rest of one that's passed on? Not on my list of "hilarious antics that ensue"; seriously, dead people freak me out. I don't know how Ryan the Funeral Director can stand it.

I woke up the next morning with not only the worst hangover of all time, but also feeling so sick in addition to the alcohol that I spent the entire weekend in bed watching football. Damn cold/flu/hangover. Damn Ravens. Damn every team I had money on losing and all the other teams winning (except Minnesota...bet on the Vikings all season, baby!)

Computer at home? Still fucked. More information as it becomes available, but it looks like only updates from my school computer.