I love my Friday classes, and I love learning, and I love all my professors, especially those that read the Backpage and might cut some slack to a kid who has to turn out a weekly humor column on top of doing every page of his reading and every exercise in his problem sets. I did, and I must add that I enjoyed every single class equally and that I think all the professors who teach classes in my major are underpaid and under appreciated and that I will not rest until every single one of them is given a teaching award. And yet, I still felt horrible. I chuckled to myself. Friday was Baker College Night, and I was damned if any fever was going to keep me down.
Fevers are for quitters.
My fever had soared to 103, and my ability to reason and think clearly slowly began to disappear. I decided that I better lie down if I was going to go out at all Friday night. My brain handed down the order to get into bed, but somewhere in my legs, a massive revolt took place. I hit the deck on the bathroom floor and decided that it was as good as any place for a nap. My freshmen suitemates carried out business as usual, having become accustomed to people being passed out in our bathroom.