My dad tells me that when I was young (probably a baby, I don't really know), they used to call me Pooker the Puker because I didn't stop once I got going. The same is still true today. I guess when you're good at something, you stick with it.
A few days before Christmas last week, I woke up at 4am and thought, "Yay, early! I should take a bath before work!" (because everyone thinks that at 4am) but unfortunately I never made it that far. By 7am I was sure I was dying.
I admit I get a little melodramatic when I'm sick.
I said things like,
"I might not survive to see Christmas. Brother... don't... open... my presents!"
"I feel like I'll never be well again."
"I think I know how marooned sailors feel. Water is so close, yet I can't drink it."
(That's a coconut in his hand.)
At some point I realized (a) I was crazy hungry, and (b) I was crazy thirsty. Clearly I was dehydrated, like that sailor on the island.
At some point my brain got tired of this stupid game. It kind of laid down the law on things, which made Stomach all pouty and rumbly (brat), but Throat quieted down.
Stomach acted the fool for a while but Throat was on my side and agreed to keep some ice chunks down. For the first time in about 19 hours I was able to return to my bed where I promptly laid on my stomach and showed it who's the boss. Like this!
Or maybe not like that. But I was the boss.
Around 11:30pm I woke up to this:
It was wonderful.
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