I suppose it’s one of life’s little delectations that the morning after I finish rereading The Plague, I wake up with the worst case of tonsilitis I’ve had in a year or two. Although I usually don’t realize it’s not just a cold for at least a couple of days, I’m getting pretty used to the symptoms and headed straight to the UHC after my first lecture. I plopped my ass down in Urgent Care, so that someone could fondle my lymph nodes, shove an overgrown Q-Tip down my throat, and give me some penicillin.

I got all that, but I also got a referral for a throat specialist because of the truly absurd number of times I’ve had Bad Throat Stuff in the recent past. This is both good and bad. The good part, obviously, is that he may be able to fix my throat and/or the damage that my immune system incurred because of the Mono Incident. The bad part is that he may just tell me what others have been making noise about for quite a while - that it’s time to just give in and rip the little fuckers out. The tonsils, that is. I’m not a big fan of the whole surgery gestalt, although I’ve never actually experienced it firsthand. Hell, it might be all shits and giggles; I can’t really say. But I’m not looking forward to missing classes and having my throat hurt yet again. We’ll see.

It’s interesting to think about the fact that if it weren’t for penicillin and its friendly fungal pals, I’d be dead several times over by now. Sure, the first time I had strep throat - when I was maybe eight and stayed in bed for a week with my Ginny dolls and endless cups of broth - might not have killed me, but one of the other dozen times I’ve had it or related infections probably would have done the trick. However, I barely think twice about picking up a five dollar bottle of this stuff whenever I wake up with tonsils the size of grapefruit and a throat full of the most appetizing gunk.