— So what are we going to do?
— I guess we're going to die.
This country is still growing up. Certain diseases it's better to have when you're still young.
— Scared to find out the truth?
— I'm scared of anything other than finding out what STDs you have.
— Very funny.
— Hello, Bob. Wanna come over for dinner?
— Are you sick?
— Why do you ask?
— You look sick.
— I am sick.
— You take medicine?
— There is no medicine for what I have.
— Wanna sing?
— Sing?
— Do you know "He's Got the Whole World in His Hands"?
— Yes, I do.
— He's got the whole world in
His hands
He's got the whole wide world
Come on.
He's got the whole world
in His hands
He's got the whole wide world
in His hands
It's on the ground. Repeat.
The plane is on the ground.
We are in a daily battle for our lives. I see no value in dwelling on that.
Well, nothing ends the romance more swiftly than amoebic dysentery. I lasted a week in a filthy Indian hostel, begging Alex not to leave me for dead in that hellish place. Four days later we landed in Newark and my worried mother tucked me into the backseat of her car and clucked the entire way home. In a way it was a Jewish mother's dream, a real reason to visit doctor after doctor after doctor, making absolutely sure that every miserable parasite had abandoned her little girl.
— Is mommy drunk, daddy?
— No, no, she's just got a little migraine. A little Chardonnay migraine.