There is nothing in the world so withering as that lurching feeling you get just before expelling the contents of your stomach into whatever handy receptacle there is nearby. My own bout with what is either a virulent strain of the stomach flu or a severe case of Chinese food regret has laid me up all day yesterday and today. Let me tell you, it is always humbling to find yourself with your head laid on the seat of the toilet, glad, actually glad, that it is finally happening.
After the fourth visit to Our Blessed Bowl of Deliverance, you begin to lose all sense of time and space.
After bending low for a sixth expulsion, I started praying.
So it goes, my life in LA. I haven’t gotten anything done since the sickness struck, including work. It seems to be my fate to fall ill to some dread disease in the early days of new employment. I can think of at least two jobs I’ve held in the last eight years that I’ve had to call in sick for within the first two weeks of work. Perhaps it’s my natural disinclination for labour. In truth, I think I’m just unlucky.
And my energy levels being what they are, I don’t think I will attempt further ruminations. I’ve tried to stay hidden from the next ugly sensation, mostly through the ingestion of saltines and ginger ale, though that’s already failed me once. Wish me luck as I battle through the remains of this horrible feeling. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll be right as rain.
Whatever that means.