Finally things are starting to take a toll on my body. I've had what I think is the flu for the past four days but haven't told anyone except people who I have no chance of seeing. On Tuesday I had severe enough of a fever that I logged off at 11am and slept straight until 5pm, waking periodically to eat more of my Tofu Tofu delivery (buddae jiggae and japchae), dial into a project sync-up, and drink more water. At one point, moving to cover my face with my pillow--can never be too careful about those UV rays--I noted hazily that the sun, indeed, did rise in the east and set in the west. I debated bowing out of my plans for the night but it felt like too much of an excuse; even though illness is a valid reason to miss a date I felt like I would have been flaking more out of anxiety and nervousness than illness. To be clear though, I did feel horrible. At 6pm after a shot of espresso and some Advil my body aches had subsided and I lay on my couch watching Curb until it was time to make the trek to the Jefferson St. stop. The chills came back with a vengeance at 3am. This past weekend I had one of the craziest nights of my life, but it all feels so far away now and I guess inconsequential. Walking home with Alexa through Soho, we discussed the varied pockets of nightlife in NYC: the basic lower Manhattan bars that only play Top 40 and Mr. Brightside, the Brooklyn DJ/music scene, the party we had just been at. We passed a sports bar on Houston St. as we neared my apartment and laughed at the people still inside at 5am: "This could have been our night." It felt good to be on shrooms together; I felt like we were on the same wavelength even though it was our first time hanging out one on one, prompting a new development in my drugs philosophy: sometimes you should leave things to be rare and special. Practically, I guess this means I won't be eating shroom chocolate every weekend anymore. Time to fentanyl test that sliding compact of mysterious white powder that Olive and I found on the floor of Public Records.