I’ve now missed four days of work. It started Sunday night when I thought I was getting a cold.
Wait. Backstory. You see, I am now a magnet for sickness. I work completely alone. I’ll sometimes go a month or more without ever having a lot of contact with anyone from the outside world. I come home, and I see my fiancee, and that’s about it. Otherwise, I’m an empty beachside condo for any vacationing bugs that happen to come along.
Right. So, Saturday, I went to a party with my fiancee. With people. Lots of disease-carrying, fully-socialized-and-therefore-mostly-immune-to-whatever-casual microbes-are-being-passed-around people.
Yeah. So, Sunday night, I thought I was getting a cold. By Monday morning, my throat hurt so bad I couldn’t swallow.
That cleared up in a day or so. Unfortunately, that’s when the pukery started. Oh, and the diarrhea.
I haven’t managed to climb out of bed before 1 PM in four days. I’ve had a spectacular lack of success in keeping anything down (slightly positive side note: I’ve lost 5 pounds! Blech. I’d rather be fat.)
So yes, my body has sprung a number of leaks, and I’m bailing as fast as my diseased little self can manage. I’ve been doped up on various OTC remedies until I could tell you the year and vintage of the particular bottle of Ny-Quil I’m swilling at the moment (pure exaggeration, of course, since I can’t taste or smell a damn thing.)
Goddamn flu. Why didn’t I get a shot this year again? Bah.
Enough. I’m off to the doctor. Not that he can do anything for me at this point. It’s just me and the microbe, man. Tug-of-war, baby.
Somebody kill me. Please.

