Welcome, 2014. Oh, God, shoot me now

I woke up at 2:57 this morning, feeling...bad. Really, my powers of description are about to desert me along with most of my innards, so get used to things like 'bad' and 'worse.'
I dialed my shower back several degrees, afraid the heat would exacerbate the dizziness I was feeling, and then got out and attended to bathroom business. Again. And again. And again. I felt like I might puke...there is no feeling more sick making than the feeling of your body making sick, unless it's the feeling of actually throwing up; that said, you usually feel seven shades of better once you actually vomit, so I tried.

Couldn't.

My insides had absolutely no qualms about high-speed southern evacuation...I spent most of the 90 minutes before I had to go to work bouncing between the toilet and my chair downstairs, walking very carefully and trying not to upend the ass-pitcher. (Sorry.) Said ass-pitcher was sloshing frothily, my stomach a class twelve on the Beaufort Scale. and getting to work without soiling myself was a close thing indeed. I had a horrible moment right outside the home of a colleague, abut halfway, where I had to stop and clench and sob, imagining myself explaining to Rachael and Nick that I couldn't help myself, honestly, I'm 41 and my toilet training has abandoned me, please pardon the method I used to melt the snow all along your sidewalk.


I go to work. Unless I'm nine-tenths dead, I go to work. STAYING at work, however, was out of the question, considering I was there all of two hours and used the bathroom at least ten times.  I wrote some orders and then tottered on home, feeling worse with every step. Howard's mother from Big Bang Theory had taken up residence in my head, screaming "holy moly, how much liquid can be in one tuchus?!'

 A couple of hours after I got home, I finally yarked. Three times, shitting copiously all the while. Now I've got an image in my head from the only time in my life I can remember feeling sicker than this. I was at my then-girlfriend's place in Ingersoll--this would have been more than twenty years ago--when I had all of the above (and more pertinently all of the below)  symptoms plus a raging fever that I was told topped 104. I was delirious, and unable to think anything close to clearly, and so I crawled up to Lynne's downstairs toilet like a supplicant and proceeding to retile her bathroom floor.

I'm happy to report I didn't make the same mistake this time. My bathroom garbage had an indignity committed on it, though, and quite frankly I'd rather just throw it out than even attempt to clean it.

 By this point my torso felt like it had gone nine rounds with Rocky Balboa: an extremely tender stomach that recoiled if I tried to touch it, and a  band of pain around my ribs from vomiting so hard.  Strangely, though, I feel a little better, as if the worst had passed.

I wish.

Much of my strength had been puked and shat out of me, and so I very slowly went downstairs and got a glass of water to sip. I tried a couple of mouthfuls of fruit juice, too, reasoning I needed some vitamins in me. 

Even the water wouldn't stay down. The diarrhea, at full flood as ever, was now completely clear: so was my next barking yawn. 

I have been wandering between couch and bed all day, with occasional mincing detours, trying to get comfortable...piling on the clothes an covers, then ripping them all off fifteen minutes later, Laying on my stomach...are you kidding? Laying on either side is all right for a little while, but everything is so sensitive that I can neither get to sleep nor even get a bit of a doze in.

It's been seventeen hours now and I don't feel any better than I did when this started. Hell of a way to bring in 2014...