6:00am I think Nicci has food poisoning. I heard her roll out of bed an hour ago, and she mumbled something about a pain in her abdomen. I tried to close my eyes and return to sleep, but a sharp knocking from the other side of the wall behind my head (the bathroom) alerted me that something was wrong. I went to check on her and she said she thought she might be sick. She felt cold and nauseous. Of course, my first reaction was — sadly — not to fear for her health, but my own. You see, I’m a bit of a worrier, and hearing that a dish we ate (steamed clams) together was making her ill instantly raised in me the fear that I too would become violently ill. She asked me to take her home, so I lent her a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and drove her home. In the car, on the way back to my apartment, I called my uncle. He said I should take her to a drop-in care center to make sure the problem wasn’t her appendix. I quickly called her back and asked if she wanted me to do that. She said no. The next response I received from her came twenty minutes ago, and mentioned something about “Round 3 was easier than Rounds 2 and 1.” I guess that means trips to the vomitorium. Now I am in a heightened state of anxiety, still worrying about my own health, judging every instinct and feeling on the basis of whether or not it is the onset of food poisoning. What the fuck is my problem?
6:30am A website called “Live Science” reported on a new study this week (question: how many new studies have their results released each week?) that says, “More often that not, guys interpret even friendly cues, such as a subtle smile from a gal, as a sexual come-on, and a new study discovers why: Guys are clueless. More precisely, they are somewhat oblivious to the emotional subtleties of non-verbal cues…” Look, that study has it all wrong. Men are not clueless, we just all possess the to be really creepy quasi stalkers or potential date-rapists (emphasis on potential), so of course we interpret signals the wrong way. Whether or not a guy understands a girl’s intentions when she smiles at him isn’t something that required actual research (it was probably well-funded, too), it’s common sense.
7:00am. Still no sleep. Nicci texts to say that she is “still feeling better” (I guess she reached critical mass as far as all the puke is concerned), and will attempt to get some rest. I responded by promising to visit her before heading to work today, so long as I’m not holed up in my bathroom, cowering like a freshman, ejecting the contents of my stomach out both my mouth and my butt. I didn’t say exactly that, but that’s the same kind of poetic writing style that won me her heart.
8:00am. I decide to listen to the radio and read whatever is deemed headline-worthy by CNN and ESPN. Two episodes of Seven Second Delay are queued: the first one I ever remember hearing and the episode from the week before that. Something about children being removed from a polygamist ranch makes me long for new episodes of Big Love. Over at ESPN, nothing the Mets have done so far this season is newsworthy. Yesterday’s game was postponed until late May. Today’s game is starting at 12:55 PST, but I’ll be at work then. Hopefully the text messages offered by MLB.com will keep me up-to-date. The sun is streaming through the cracks in my window shades now. A truck is rolling slowly up the drive. I wish I could just fall asleep.
9:00am. Maybe the guy next door is sick, too. I keep hearing him cough loudly through the walls (which I were told were well-insulated), and he’s run to the bathroom three times so far this hour. It sounds like he just dropped a large metal object onto a marble floor. I know this because I am like Peter Falk as Columbo. I used to watch that show all the time when I was little and I had to stay home sick from school. I wish I had a TV in this room, I bet I could find something really cool to watch at such an early hour. Jesus, since when is 9:00am an early hour? Who am I, a college kid?
10:00am. I’ve awoken from what I guess must have been an hour of sleep. Spider bites on my wrist. Itch itch itch. I have a full day of work to look forward to. No new messages from Nicci, I guess maybe she hurled herself to sleep. I’m going to run over and check on her before work. Tomorrow I’ve got some good ideas for your weekly Collector’s Slum out-of-print downloads. Maybe some comedy? Maybe some weirdness? Maybe some L.A.-ness?
