I’m sick.

Not just melodramatic hand across my pale brow feeling a little peaked sick, but full on death bed catholic priest last rites bucket next to me at all times kind of sick. I have had better times, to be sure.

I’m still not sure if I have food poisoning or a nasty stomach flu, but I’ve been feeling horrible since Friday afternoon. My lunch of half a Big Mac didn’t sit very well with me, but I thought it was just because I didn’t really WANT it but couldn’t think of anything else for lunch. I had a gurgly tummy all Friday night and sort of forgot to eat dinner – by midnight I remembered but was already mostly asleep and couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. This would be a bad move on my part, since we had plans to go for breakfast on Saturday morning. I was definitely not feeling right but figured I was just hungry so hey let’s go have some eggs!

Bad idea.

I ate half my breakfast before giving up, then came home to promptly die all over the place. I will spare you the details, but there were nasty fluids from nasty places in staggering amounts. I spent Saturday moaning quite pathetically on the couch, followed by more of the same on Sunday. So far I’ve missed out on outside fun and another breakfast, and there will be no delicious BBQ tonight for me. I can’t keep plain bread down; and while the thought of steak is normally excellent, right now it makes me want to cry. I am sick. I hate being sick.

I am also tired of eating bread.