For the first time since the convention started, I returned to my hotel room at a decent hour: 11:45 p.m. I had a sore throat from shouting over the din in countless smoke-filled cash-bars . . . or so I thought. Those who live quiet lives should not travel across the country and pretend they're Hunter S. Thompson and not expect dire fucking consequences.
Around 3 a.m. I awoke shaking with a bone-chill four layers of sweaters and a heater could not kill. I took some Tylenol and stopped shaking . . . but I suspect my body had some threshold which I unwittingly crossed yesterday. I don't think I'm actually ill so much as toast. So unless the fifteen gallons of water I've imbibed have magical restorative powers, I will only venture to Brian Thill's panel today. (Otherwise I would have to admit I wasted valuable suitcase space on a giant foam finger.)
UPDATE: A couple more hours of sleep and I'm young and alive again! Best. Flu-like. Symptoms. Ever.