There is one truly magnificent thing about being sick, and that is the getting better part. Did you ever notice that the day after you leave your premature deathbed, you feel more alive, more fit and more able to tackle the evils of the world than you did before you entered your semi-coma?
After the recent battle with whatever wants to live in intestines, I must say that I feel, well, good. Good is good for me as the most I usually am able to muster is a faint peachy, which is the sarcastic version of good, and therefore something a tincture less than good, but still not fucking awful. So, it is good to be better than peachy, if even for one day.
But seriously, let us reflect on passing through the stages of food poisoning to the final days...past the vomitting and fevers and the fire drill evacuation of the bowels.
There is a fear and dread that enters the mind when one has been so liquid for so long. The little coffin room mocks me. But yogurt and cheese have prevailed. Gatorade has kept me alive.
Now, I must tempt the gods again with undercooked chicken, and day old Taco Bell. I must leave the bread in the sun just long enough to grow fuzz. The poisons could very well be the ambrosia that gods left behind.
Or, ambrosia could merely be a Martha Stewart recipe, appearing next week on her show.
What do I know, I am a klown.
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