sickler

A I may be becoming a subconscious bulimic.
B Someone's getting their kicks slipping laxatives and vomit-inducing medications into my canned olives.
C I could be having a bad run of tainted food.
D I COULD BE DYING.

D is what I thought on Saturday night, head lolling off the edge of the bed when it wasn't lolling off the edge of the toilet. And D what I was thinking the Friday night three weeks ago, when I was doing the exact same thing.

I'm not encouraged by the trend and now in light of options B and C, I'm afraid to eat. Luckily, I've been feeling a little chunky, so this works just fine if the answer is A. (It's incredible how much weight one loses if one ceases to ingest solid foods for 48 hours or so.) Though given how wrenchingly painful the process has been thus far, I think I'll give fully conscious anorexia a whirl this go 'round and see if it works as well as its more projectile prone sister. Plus, that will knock out options B and C, too. Woo Hoo!

Regardless, if the pattern continues, I'm really going to have to train Fred to open doors without the use of opposable thumbs, teach him how to drive a stick, make him memorize directions to the store, and introduce him to the parrot a few houses down who absolutely must learn the phrases Ginger Ale and Chicken Noodle Soup.

(Makes it sound like I don't have friends. But I don't really have friends that I would -- even though I could -- call at 4 o'clock in the morning. And that's when I wanted the Ginger Ale. And that's when the chihuahua-parrot-driving caper seemed to make a lot of really sane sense.)