I was only going to be in San Francisco for four days, three nights. So I couldn't bear the thought of any more time wasted on being ill. I'd been taking the vitamins, drinking the tea, sipping the soup, even getting some rest (kinda). But I knew it was gonna take something just a little more drastic to finally kick the cobwebs outta my immune system, and fire up the recover just a bit quicker.
Naturally, I called my mom. She suggested a shot of tequila with Tabasco. So off to Sasha's bar I went.
She fixed me up real nice. And though I started sweating, I felt the need for one last shove into recovery. Sash suggested the hot tub at her dad's.
"It has jets," she said. And so I bid my hasty adieu and booked it straight up to her dad's (oh, by the way, he's on vacation) and fired up the tub with some Epsom salt.
I can't begin to tell you how magical this suggestion actually was. There's just something about being enveloped in a bath of warm water, something about the relaxing effect of the Epsom salt on muscles, the way the bubbles tingle the skin...
Okay, yeah... it was the jets. I am here to tell you that the hands-down, all-time, best cure for a cold, my friends, is a self-induced orgasm aided and abetted by the full-power water-vibrator known simply as the jacuzzi jet.
Hallelujah.
And everything was smooth-sailing for the rest of the weekend: clearing out and cleaning my old apartment with help from my pal Jeff, a romantic and sober overnighter with Thespian, a brief but lovely quality bar hangout time at Molotov in Lower Haight with Sasha, and the subsequent sad, but temporarily satiated, flight back to Palm Springs, where I would be giving news that I would not be staying but would, in fact, be giving up my fulltime, permanent position as a corporate newsroom features reporter, in lieu of returning to the city I love, the city of many afternoon delights. And so many more to, uh, come.
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