Laura: How are you?
Me: Oh, you know. I made myself take a shower today.
Laura: Good for you!
Everyone has this stomach thing, and it really blows. It’s so bad, that people are calling me to do things later in the week, and I’m all, “Jeez, I don’t know. I can’t imagine ever being well again, so I’m guessing we should just pencil that in.”
I slept for most of the day today, something I haven’t done in quite awhile. It was pretty fantastic, except for the part where I’ll probably be up all night now. Urg.
1) I have the stomach flu.
2) I thought it was just my inability to comprehend anything Terry Francona does, but no, I’m actually vomiting and not just nauseated with disbelief.
3) WTF, is it 2003?
Matthew: What are you doing?
Me: Reading the directions.
Matthew: It’s soup.
Me: I know that.
Matthew: You put in a can of soup and a can of water.
Me: OK, fine, fancy. You can tell me when it’s done.
So, have you heard of this Master Cleanse shiz? The “shiz” is literal, turns out, cuz if you do the Cleanse, your day starts out by drinking enough salt water to make poop come shooting out yer heinie like a geiser.
OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration. Howsomever, you do a salt water “flush” thingie as part of this diet, and that just seems like a terrible idea to me. I mean, don’t they tell sailors who are lost at sea to drink their own pee before they drink salt water? Would they do that just to be mean? I don’t think so. Drinking salt water is bad for you, y’all.
I’m a bit chunky-trunks right now, but I’m thinking about just eating some fruit or something. And then, maybe I’ll get crazy and go for a walk.
My week began on Tuesday with vomiting.
Not mine, I’m pleased to report. Someone else’s. I got out of the subway and there she was, Ms. Honorary Monday Hangover Right-Now, puking elaborately into a trashcan just outside the 14th street F.
Now, if she’d looked distressed, I might’ve stopped and lent a hand. I don’t, as my English friend Luke would say, mind doing a bit. Howsomever, this young lady was grinning maniacally whilst puking, which to me says crazy. If you’re smiling and puking , you better be on peyote. And even then, I’m not a-gonna stick around to talk to you.
The rest of the week was less eventful, but a definite step up.
Tonight, Coworker Dennis and I went out to a gay bar to be gay. At one point, I left him to guard our vodka-and-cranberries, and went out to take a phone call. On the smoking patio, I met the one straight dude in the place. Also? He was homeless. Also? He introduced himself to me by trying to kiss my neck.
Dubya. Tee. Eff. I could so clean up with the mentally unstable.