On Wednesday of this week, I had a fever for the first time in twenty years.
After leaving work after a *very* disagreeable lunch, I came home and I sat on the sofa with my neon green thermometer. Cross-eyed, I watched as my temperature reading crept up from 97.9 to 99.8 100.2. I was uncomfortable. I was warm. Then I was cold. My muscles hurt and was tired.
Did I have the swine? I wasn't sure.
What I did know was that I needed to take analgesics to alleviate my symptoms and to help me sleep.
I took the requisite drugs and went to bed at 7pm.
At 9:15pm, I woke up to the sound of banging in the hallway. It sounded as though a battering ram was hitting the walls. I was disoriented and annoyed.
I let the noise continue for ten or fifteen minutes hoping that the noise would just stop. I asked it to stop. Out loud, even.
And then, I forced myself out of my bed and opened the door.
There she was.
My neighbor--the one with the drinking problem whose apartment emits fumes that smell like high octane rubbing alcohol.
She was hammering nails into her door.
For no reason.
In a haze of NyQuil and discomfort, I asked, "What exactly are you doing?"
"Don't YOU ask ME what I'M doing. I'VE lived here for TWELVE YEARS. I can do WHATEVER I want. And there's SOMETHING ELSE I WANT TO TELL YOU."
My response to that?
"I don't care. I might have the flu. You don't want this."
And I shut the door.
I'm getting better at responding to her unpredictable behavior. And yes, I believe she was drunk. Again.