So I go to the Juilliard Health Office and I tell them that my throat hurts to the point where I am unable to drink, smoke, or eat anything tangible other than the broth from a soup.

To my utter dismay, they carry nothing but Advil and condoms, neither of which, unfortunately, will do anything rehabilitative for my throat, but might instead perhaps be used in some retarded combo-pack someday when I have a bad hangover and need to have sex, simultaneously of course.

Sometimes life is retarded. Like the automated toilet flushers that never flush when you stand up and finish, but react to every subtle movement that your ass hole makes mid-shit.