Being sick is kind of a bummer. Tuesday was arguably the worst day of my life; body-wracking fever pains combined with sporadic yet heinously intense stomach spasms is not a recipe for a pleasant day. 800mg of ibuprofen, two Nyquil, and thirteen hours of sleep later, I was feeling worlds better but apparently still not well enough. I managed to eat breakfast and make it to work, only to have a recurrence of the stomach death which got me sent home after an hour. Probably a good idea, considering I didn't feel like doing much all day, and was somehow still sick enough to sit through all of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, possibly one of the most plot-absent movies of all time. That's when you know it's bad. Another twelve hours of sleep later (yes, I have sleep for more than half of the past 72 hours) and while my stomach still can't tell if it's hungry or hurting, at least food doesn't make me want to puke anymore. Baby steps, right?
Probably the biggest bummer in all of this is that we got nine inches of snow yesterday and last night, I don't have to work until one, but I am clearly not up for skiing. I think the gods are against me. What did I do to deserve this?
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