I'm not sure exactly why I am sick, but I have a few guesses. It was either food poisoning, the dare to chug a flask of escheria coli, or Poetic Justice smiting me for saying I don't get sick. Whatever it is that has laid me low, I know it isn't like what I had earlier this year. This one is definitely a 'Worship the Porcelain God' kind of sick, if you catch my drift. And if you don't grok what I'm saying, it's probably for the best that you don't.
Anyway, as for the text of the Cut, it is definitely true. Some backstory on the past couple of days is needed, though.
On Wednesday, I wasn't feeling too bad, just a mild headache. So, I went to work, and was productive. Thursday, however, everything went down the crapper, no pun intended. The day started out normally enough, with me at work and all, but that's pretty much where the happyshineyfuntime stopped. Rather than being my usual, obscenely chipper self at work, I just kinda... stood there. Not being the playful smartass I normally was, not breaking any minor (and unnecessary) rules, not exchanging witty banter with the three-foot tall Horkbeasts of Grankt. And that's how I knew things were very wrong. I should have been awake, and cogent, and not narcissistic.
But I didn't want to leave early, because I felt really guilty about leaving the Management in the lurch without me. Plus, the fact that Daphne hadn't been able to take a sickday the week before when she had bronchitis, made me feel really awful about leaving early. So, I stuck it out until around 1500, when Mike let me go home early. I got home, went upstairs, and was on the toilet for a good half-hour. Not fun. Then, I proceeded to the shower, which was interrupted by my stepdad Chuck banging on the door, wondering why I was home. Again, not fun.
I told him I was sick, and he seemed mollified. After getting out of the shower and getting dressed in sickyperson clothes, I ventured downstairs in search of medicine for my poor, abused digestive system. I nabbed a cupful of crushed ice with some cola syrup in it, and a couple of tablets of the best medicine in the entire World, Sinuberase. I've grown up with Sinuberase, and it has always made me feel better. A medicine from one of my Ancestral Homelands, it is by far the most effective anti-diarrheal, anti-nausea, anti-depressant, anti-whateverthehellyouwantoutofyoursyst
Anyway, I got the medicines I needed, and went to bed. Kinda. Being sick makes me either incredibly tired, or unable to sleep. So, I set my laptop on the end of my bed, and started surfing the 'Net. I stopped at 0100, Friday. Mainly because I expected to be at work bright and early, as is my wont. But, when I woke up at 0830 with incredible stomach pain, I called in sick. Daphne was not happy. She is one of the most long-suffering managers I have ever met, and I very nearly crawled out of bed to try and get to work. But I didn't. Because I don't have that kind of willpower. So, with a giant load of guilt on my mind from leaving Job Incarnate by herself all day, I slept.
Now, anyone who knows me, knows I love fever dreams. This particular set reinforces that belief several thousandfold. I loves me some fever dreams. Also, this one makes no sense whatsoever, and has glaring continuity errors, but it was just a dream, so please, bear with me.
So, from what I can remember, the main portion of this dream begins out in space, on a routine salvage mission. Myself and a crewmate find a suited-up corpse, with a hole in the faceplate and some weird white stuff concealing the hapless cosmonaut's face (think: that scene in the movie Alien). Anyway, we pull him aboard our salvage tug, and proceed to HeadQuarters. Halfway there, we are teleported to the Quarantine area of the space station, where a pair of medics in full Biohazard gear remove the body. We are left alone for a while, and check out our surroundings. It's a huge are we're in, big enough to hold thousands of people for Decontamination. Every surface in the place is grubby, and slightly pockmarked. Several minutes later, a whole herd of people slowly trickles in.
By the end of the day, the entire room is nearly filled with people wearing filthy, ragged clothing. Everything has become decidedly grubbier. Guards in Biohazard gear are now posted at the exits. The place has definitely become a prison. Chow time comes along, and the food consists of tortillas and cheese. The food is handed out by a couple of people in Biohazard suits, but nowhere near fast enough. So, I open a small cupboard recessed in the countertops, and pull out a small hunk of cheese and a tortilla. A fellow prisoner asks me where I got the morsel, and I tell him about the storage containers. When he asks me about why they would provide us with so much food, I responded that it was so we didn't starve to death right away when they left us alone.
This created a small panic, resulting in a few people gathering together to plan an escape. The subject turns to building an airplane out of the plentiful junk in the prison. After much debate as to whether or not one can be built, I build one. A small one-seater, that looks more like an ultralight than a fully-fledged plane, because of it's junky origins. I hop in the only seat, and take off. The warm, Texas air hits my face as I rise higher and higher above the ground, fleeing the place of sickness. I set my course, and relax. I'm headed to Colombia.
I arrive shortly, landing in a clearing no larger than 10 metres by 10 metres, and hop out of the plane. I proceed to a big convention, where I mill around for a couple of days, before heading home. I hop in the plane, start it up, and taxi out to the very large runway to leave. As the wheels leave the ground, a problem develops. The dinky plane begins stalling out, while perfectly horizontal. After dropping for a sickening amount of time, the propellor again bites into air, and the plane continues on course.
And that, my friends, is where the dream ended. It felt like it lasted years, though, and there is a bunch of detail that I cannot remember accurately, so I won't put them in. I woke up around 1700, and logged online to see if there was any new news, but, more importantly, to check if anyone had commented on my posts, because I'm an egomaniac like that. I did get a pleasant surprise in finding out that imabeeinabox is still alive, some worry over wombat_socho's medical problems, more worry from vita_morsque's distressing post, yet more worry from edminister and, as a nice counterbalance to the angst found in the rest of my friendslist, joy in lyssa_bear's happiness. I surfed for a while, chatting on MSN with some friends, and logged off around 0000.
That's when I watched the movie White Noise. I must say, it was a very disappointing movie, IMO. My feelings about it are fairly well summed up in my movie-a-minute review, so I won't go into it here. This brings us up to today, which has been a very odd day. First, I woke up around 0830, intending to go into work early to make up for being absent the day before. I ended up being sidetracked, and left for work at 1345. While riding my bicycle, I came upon a section of bike trail that had been covered in a thick layer of silt from the riverbed that had apparently flooded during a rain that happened while I was unconscious. While rounding a ninety-degree turn , my back tyre slipped, and I very nearly wrecked my bike in the river.
When I got to work, I was sweating profusely. I chalked that up to the near-accident earlier, and got to work. Twenty minutes later, Mike tells me to go home, because I look like hell. I was still sweating, and I was having trouble walking right. My legs just didn't want to work, for some bizarre reason. So, feeling incredibly bad about not being able to work two days in a row, I get back on my bike, and head home.
When I get there, lock up my bike, and walk in the door, Chuck asks me what was going on. I told him that Mike had sent me home because I was sweating profusely in an air-conditioned store twenty minutes after being there. Chuck grunted his acknowledgement, and I ask him if there are any thermometers handy. He tells me to ask Mom, so I do.
She seemed simultaneously pissed that I was home, and worried about my health. She then gave me the thermometer, and I go through the whole temperature-taking rigamarole. 96.6 degrees Fahrenheit. After exercising in triple-digit weather. Now, I would think that being that cold right after something that should be raising your temperature by a couple degrees would be bad, but she disagreed. So, I went upstairs, and began typing what you are reading now. She brought me some fresh, homemade from scratch, chicken soup around 1645, and I ate about half the bowl, along with three corn tortillas. And now I am up to typing this sentence. Yup. I'll stop here. Have fun, everybody, and be safe in Internet Land!