According to my doctor, I have a parasite. Mexico tried to kill me. "Their standards of cleanliness are different," he told me. "You just never know what you could be dealing with." Oh God, don't tell this to a girl who keeps a bottle of 409 in pretty much every room of her home, who was one of the first to start enthusiastically using "swif" as a real verb. Don't tell me anything else about how no one south of the border washes their hands, just tell me I'll feel better soon. Apparently my cheap vacation wanted me to pay a little more than I anticipated.
And, PARASITE? What a way to put it. Way more dramatic than FLU. Nothing like the threat of a little bodily invasion to make you want to drive off a cliff. Of course, it's provided me with hours of amusement, as I've been going around telling my loved ones, "Red's not here anymore...the parasite is here now" in my best Tony-from-The-Shining voice.
When the obvious was suggested to me (toast, tea, rice), I countered that I might as well just eat waffle cones all day because it doesn't matter, I'm just going to throw up anyway. Billy promptly asked me if I'd seen Starved, that new show on FX, that I might really like it. Point taken.