wildcat

I've been infested with nanotechnological bugs that are sweeping through my system and liquifying most of my internal organs, hollowing me out to rebuild me as a second Sixty-Four Million Dollar Man. I'll have hydrochloric acid for saliva and be able to walk up walls thanks to magnetism.

Actually, probably not, because I'm not sure CSIS is known for its stealth cyborg-fu.

Instead, I have a bad case of food poisoning or possibly a stomach flu which had me up all night with the Ring of Water (worse than the Ring of Fire) and crescendoed particularly violently at about six this morning when I threw up for half an hour straight into a pot. A sickpot. I'm dizzy and exhausted and incapable of prolonged standing, prone to collapsing on my bed in a chaotic fit of half-shamanistic fever spirit trips while more of my internal organs melt. I'm nauseous no matter what position I'm in.

I think this was caused by a particularly flavourless tuna melt and fries I had at Rosie's Diner yesterday, and won't be patronizing them again. I had to call in sick to work. I try to avoid calling in sick to work. I have this problem where I feel like I'm actually faking it even if I'm completely and utterly at death's door. Guilt. But by this point my breath has been classified as one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and my entire stomach is a dirty bomb waiting to happen. One day Christian and I were driving somewhere and CBC was blaring about cluster-bombs and dirty bombs and they wouldn't stop talking about them. I should not be at work. I'm going to have another lie down shortly and I'm drinking tea and I'm trying not to think about the cyberpunk mosquitos burrowing through my insides, set to "Convert Appendix into Gelatin" and "Invalidate Warranty on Liver" modes.