I’m not sure what caused it, but I have been enjoying what I suspect is some choice, plump and deliciously mild food poisoning. Sitting here at my computer in a death sweat, drinking some mad concoction that’s supposed to keep me from redecorating my home in shades of puke, I wonder if tonight I will see a few hours of respite from the nausea gnomes and catch at least a few hours of sleep, free from the tossing, grumbling and weak promises to god to never eat finger food at a public event ever again.

Still, when one is down in the doldrums of a general malaise, there’s always something to perk up about. Words like ‘barfalicious’, ‘barftastic’, ’spewmongous’ and ‘pukeriffic’ bring a weak grim to my pasty mug. Daydreams of massive projectile vomiting on subway passengers, knocking newspapers, babies and hairpieces to and fro with a massive, multicolor blast of barfy righteousness elicits a slight giggle as well.

I would trade all this highbrow, self-perpetuated entertainment for a stomach that would behave in a second, of course. But as it stands, I feel like ass. Fuck that, I feel like some old dead guys ass, stuffed with a dead ferret. I could make comparisons between my current condition and all sorts of asses, alive, dead, stuffed or otherwise, but I think I’ve worked that angle to death in previous posts. I just want my stomach back.

Have I offended the barf god? Do I need to slay a goat at the temple of hurl? Seriously, give me a sign and as long as it doesn’t entail jumping-jacks, licking ashtrays or gargling on cockroaches, I’ll do it.