One of three things is happening to me these past 3 days.
a) I have unknowingly been cast in the movie Alien 8: Big Brother Edition where they have implanted an alien in my belly, have hidden cameras and are just waiting for it to burst through my gut.
b) One of the children brought home a stomach flu/bug/virus/hellish experience and decided to be completely selfless and give it all to Mom in double doses.
c) In one of my more unguarded moments, I signed up for a diet plan that requires the inability to keep anything that resembles food or food-like products in my system and I am in fact repulsed by even the word food. We won’t go into what the sight or smells do to me. This I blame on the terrorists. Because I can.
Clint is insisting that choices (a) and (c) are ridiculous. (Let him sit–rather lie because sitting is SO BAD on the stomach right– where I am and I bet he finds validity in those 2 choices. So, I will be offline until I can be upright for more than 5 minutes without having to race to the porcelein goddess, get so dizzy I nearly faint and then end up curled up in the fetal postion where ever I fell.
I know. You wish you were me. Sorry! We can’t all have crappy immune systems that are throwing parties for every cootie in the city. You have to work to be this pathetic, people.