The Food Poisoning

You are on the toilet. You had food poisoning yesterday, and the remnants of the illness are leaving your body now.

The night before last, you hardly slept. Your guts felt hard as stone, and any movement increased your nausea. You laid there all night in pain staring at the ceiling.

There are windows above your bed, and, at some point in the night, the moon came into view. The sky was clear and the moon was nearly full. For some reason, it made you feel a little better to see it there hanging above you.

Yesterday, you felt old and off balance, as if the virus, or bacteria, or whatever, had aged you and fucked up your equalibrium. Other than a visit to the bathroom, where you spent nearly five minutes squirting something out of your penis that looked more like root beer than urine, you spent most of the day in bed watching episodes of Star Trek Voyager from your DVR (yes, you watch crappy televised science fiction. You shouldn't be judged for that). Thank god you had the day off, but what a big fucking waste of a day off.

After your Sweetie got home from work, she got into bed with you and rubbed your back. The she drove you to Lund's, because you needed soup and saltines to choke down for sustenance, and on the way back to the house she honked at some idiot double-parking an SUV on Lake Street, and you said, "Please don't get me in a fight today, Sweetie. I'm too weak to defend myself." And then you laughed weakly. And she said, "Sorry." But then she honked at the idiot again.

Today, you not only feel better, but you feel vigorous. You're drinking coffee with a lot of cream. You're going to eat a big pile of scrambled eggs. Both would have disgusted you yesterday.

The sickness is draining out of you now. It smells horrible, like rotting death. Not even the flowery spray your Sweetie leaves in the bathroom can cover it up. It's dripping everywhere. Toilet paper will not be enough for this mess. The final insult of this sickness will be skid marks on your Calvin Klein boxer briefs.

The Douchebag Who Shovels At the Butt-Crack of Dawn

You're awake at 5:30 AM, because the idiot across the street is shoveling his front walk.

"SCRAPE! SCRAPE! SCRAPE-SCRAPE! scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPE!"

What a fucking asshole.

Is their no fucking common courtesy any longer? He must really be one bored son-of-a-bitch if he's up before the ass-crack of dawn scraping cement. Or maybe he's just that fucking anal. Or maybe he's one of those righteous, flag-waving, my-way-or-the-highway douchebag fucks who thinks everyone should wake up at 5:30 AM and do manual labour.

Sheesh! Douchebags everywhere!

He's lucky this is probably the last snowfall of the year, or they'd be removing that shovel from his colon.

The After-Work Routine

You come home and you open a beer. You eat the leftover pizza in the fridge. You eat it cold, because nuking it would take effort. Then you open another beer.

You watch syndicated episodes of old sitcoms. King of Queens, Just Shoot Me, That 70's Show, King of the Hill, etc.

Your girlfriend's cat rubs against your leg and yowls. You tell the cat to shutup because your girlfriend is downstairs asleep, and the cat's yowling tends to wake her up, and she has to get up in a few hours to go to her job.

You should be looking for a new job. A job that gets you home before midnight. A job that doesn't involve driving in the Twin Cities' shitty traffic twice a day.

Minnesota nice? Whatever. These people drive like serious fucking douchebags.

You're tired. The sitcoms shut down your brain. And, soon, the beer will knock you out

Time to brush your teeth and then pass out.