I've fallen ill. The current state of my throat makes me curse the fact that there was even a hint of humor in my January 22 entry. It was the most insightful thing I've written on this blasted site. And it's not just the hideous swallows anymore. It now causes a perpetual state of pain. I also have a fever. All of this makes sleeping something of a trial. Last night the fever led to an eternally long night of twisted dream-riddled half sleep, while I managed to freeze to death and overheat the whole time simultaneously. On the bright side, throughout the night, in the state of half-sleep, I was entirely convinced that I was Jack's accomplice and that we were fighting terrorists together, and if I had to do it while shivering and sweating, well hell, the safety of this country was worth it. Sometimes delirium works in your favor. Tonight the fever is somewhat at bay, and the murderous throat is doing the honors of keeping me awake.
I haven't been sick in years, and had gotten to the point that when people complained of being sick I kind of assumed that they were lying, that they were just tired or something. Well obviously I was misguided. Anyway, I had always envisioned hell as the same exact thing as the normal world except the ground was always wet and I was always wearing socks without shoes. Or, perhaps, it was the world as it is, but while permanently wearing ski boots. But now I'm pretty sure this has to be it. It's permanently the middle of the night and I'm permanently in bed with a fever and a sore throat.
Of course, during all this, I've had to find a new apartment and move in. Changing apartments is a hideous, taxing process, and health would have been appreciated. I finally found one on Sunday, and after proving to the landlords that my business actually existed and signing the lease, I asked for my new address. They told me-
498 La Peer Dr.
Beverly Hills, 90211
"Huh," I said. "Beverly Hills, 90211". Funny. I was mildly amused, thinking little of it at the time.
Then, yesterday, I phoned DirecTV to cancel my subscription (since they weaseled me into buying their superfluous Premier package, in some twisted logic involving the NFL ticket). After the woman on the other line basically threw herself at me and started talking dirty in order to get me to stay with direcTV, she finally relented and asked for my new address, for the last bill to be sent there. I told her. She replied,
"90211! That's amazing!"
"Oh, yeah, that's kind of funny, right?"
"Oh, that's so funny!"
Then I called a piano mover to come deal with my piano (mah keez). After telling him the address, he paused, and then asked,
"Did you just say '90210?'"
"Wow! You're so close!"
It was then that the grin faded from my face. This wasn't an amusing circumstance. This was a new horrible part of my life.
I took a deep breath and tried to prepare myself for this new future. Here I am this whole time, closely monitoring every other Tim Urban, sabotaging their every ambition, ensuring that none of them becomes famous, and something equally irritating is suddenly injected into my life, right under my stuffed nose.
There are no terrorists to fight tonight. I am unfortunately lucid enough to know that Jack Bauer is unaware that I exist. As I lie here at 5:30am, between swallows, I am alone tonight with 90211.