Swine floozy or simply sickly reveler?

Dear scene,

I’m sick. No, it’s not The Swine. It’s nothing that romantic. I have no fever, no flattering flush on my cheeks, no delightful sheen on my brow. Rather than being quarantined and having meals brought to my room by doting suitemates and dining hall workers, I have had to face classes and daily life alone. My condition is as follows: a hacking cough and a debilitating cold. It’s been awful, scene. Simply awful.

Worst of all was my weekend. Determined to get out of my room and sample some of Yale’s party scene, I took a couple of Advil, stuffed some tissues in my pocket and soldiered onward. Probably not the best idea (sorry, Mom), but a necessary step after my first week of classes. You understand, scene, that I did it for you … right?

I spent a large part of my Friday night tagging along to parties to which I wasn’t explicitly invited. First was “TequiLASO” which was held by the Latin American Students Association and featured tequila shots (duh) and sangria (yum). Then I went to some Dramat gathering in Calhoun and was asked “what shows are you working on?” about 10 times by the same drunk girl. After her third inquiry, I told her I was directing four small projects and starring in the fall main stage. She nearly spilled her vodka cranberry down the front of her black American Apparel v-neck. Lovez it.

Saturday morning, I was a wreck. No, scene, I was not hung over. It was my cold, punishing me for a night of mediocre fun. My suitemates were concerned and bought me some Mucinex, a pack of plastic thermometer covers and an industrial-size bottle of Walgreens-brand hand sanitizer. Thanks, friends.

By nightfall, I was “doing much better” and somehow got it into my head that it would be a good idea to go to Toad’s. So at midnight, my posse and I joined the line of polyester-clad Q-Pac girls somewhere near the entrance to Yorkside. I was feeling good but altogether too clearheaded for a Toad’s-only night. Especially since the one concession I had made to my immune system was a commitment to sobriety. I paid my entrance fee and walked into the club. I immediately felt my temperature spike and my sinuses fill with fluid as a wave of claustrophobia and noise hit me full on.

“Do I even like Toads?” I thought, as I grasped one of my friend’s hands and struggled through the throng. The only thing that was keeping me from running out the smokers’ exit and into the night was my now-empty wallet.

But after ten minutes, scene, the room began to sway.

“Someone’s a little tipsy!” an acquaintance yelled at me, waving and blowing kisses as she squeezed by on her way toward the stage.

That was the last straw. I left. Fleeing the cesspool of germs and sweat for the cleanliness of my bed.

I’m still sick. It’s been a week now and I’m still paying for my ill-fated weekend. I think it was worth it, even if I did lose $5 to the management of Toad’s.

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