Tuesday, June 24, 2003

I never get sick.  Really.  Ask anybody.  I’m as strong as a horse.  So what the fuck, may I ask, is going on here? Right on the heels of my SARS/Bronchitis, which never went completely away, here I am with some sort of poisoning or stomach flu.  In one day I managed to both obtain the fifth volume of Harry Potter and vomit into a plastic bag on John Street during lunch hour – I am now officially an uncool New Yorker.  This is not the kind of thing I do.  This is the kind of thing that men with sensitive stomachs who are too lazy to get to the doctor and get their Previcid prescriptions refilled do.  This is, at the risk of giving too much information, retching up green bile that looks like something out of Aliens because I have nothing in my stomach to get rid of.  (This again into a plastic bag, at the 59th & Lex subway station this time.  This is Extremely Not Cool. One of two things.  I am loathe to blame my pate, which was very good and cooked for an hour and a half, after all.  I am much more willing to blame the auditors, who’ve had something going around, and who, unfortunately, I have a certain amount of contact with. The long and the short, though, is that I did not cook last night.  The thought of making ham provoked a good deal of nausea all by itself, and so I spent the evening – until 8:30 when I finally crashed completely – dozing on the sofa eating Italian ice and groggily reading my Harry Potter.  I’m sorry.  I’m failing you all.  Tonight a blow-out, I promise.   7:13:54 AM    comment []