Wherein Pearl Throws a High-Pitched Whine Out Into the Universe

I rarely get sick, but when I do, I do it right.

Take, for instance, last year’s foray into the H1N1. Have you had it? On the one hand, it certainly gets you out of anything you didn’t feel like doing for, oh, the next two-three weeks. And on the other hand it is a venture into an exquisite pain that leaves you unable to blink without wishing for unconsciousness. It was almost fascinating in its ability to generate pain.

I heartily do not recommend H1N1. And you can tell whoever asks that I said so.

I told you that to tell you this: I went home from work yesterday an hour early, an event akin, in my family, to wearing flannel pajama bottoms to the grocery store or failing to make enough turkey gravy for Thanksgiving.

It just isn’t done.

But if you find yourself sick enough that you sit on the bus with a plastic bag close at hand for fear of spontaneous vomiting, then we’ll let this work-ethic transgression go.

And when you find yourself using said plastic bag twice in the two block walk from the bus stop, then you’ll know you made the right decision in leaving early.

I feel like the ice-cold, blank-staring, empty-stomached, lurching undead.

And I look as good as I feel.

How’s by you?