The good news is I don't have tonsillitis.
Mind you, the terrible sore throat is still there, but it's now being accessorized by enough upper respiratory action for me to conclude that I don't have tonsillitis; I have a cold.
This means there's no point in going to the doctor, and that's good, because I don't have time for that.
Instead I'll drink gallons of tea and stuff all kinds of cold medication into myself--medication that promises to make me even weirder than I usually am.
Generally speaking, I avoid taking cold medicine because it usually has me re-cataloguing my CD collection or alphabetizing the spice rack or some such.
I've already warned my kids that when they come home from camp, they'll find their suitcases packed in alphabetical order: bras, shorts, t-shirts, toothbrush, toothpaste, underpants.
Because, yes, tomorrow we're heading to New Hampshire. And I still have so much shit to do that it's ridiculous. The least of which is packing suitcases. Whether I adopt an alphabetical, chronological, or precedential approach--who cares? Only someone who's on cold medicine.
Be it ever so unsystematic, suitcases will be packed. Timers will be set. Bills will be mailed, and school forms--all hundred and fifty million of them--will be filled out and delivered to the school.
It's almost lucky I'm on drugs.