WARNING: This entry is rife with nastiness of a sort I would ordinarily avoid discussing. Biological nastiness.
It turns out that it's got this rather sweet-sounding, innocuous name; Nora Virus (or Norovirus). But don't be fooled.
It was 4:30 Wednesday morning that I finally had settled for me why I'd been feeling so off the night before, & why I'd slept so poorly.
It was 4:30 in the morning that I found it suddenly rather urgent that I leap out of bed to become intimate with both the toilet & the small trash can simultaneously.
Lords & Ladies, cats & kittens, I have never in my life been this fucking sick. By Wednesday afternoon the wife was prepared to pile me into the car for a trip to the ER if my fever grew any higher. I explained to her that I was attempting (feebly)to explain my feeling on the matter to the virus itself, "Either kill me," I said, "Or leave me the fuck alone."
I still have difficulty believing that this all transpired in one day. It was a fucking nightmare.
I need to see my chiropractor. All of my ribs are out from the simultaneous, violent puking & bowel evacuation.
Now it seems that the wife is ramping up for the same thing. She's passed out on the bed, and I am not anticipating getting much sleep over the next couple of days.
This is where being an artist comes in handy. All I have to do is wander into the living room, & there's my work.
