If the Norovirus was an Olympic event, I'd win the gold medal (this post NOT for weak stomachs)...

Yeah, I know. It's been a while since I've posted.

This is because I've been too busy hurling and pooping.

You see, I had the norovirus, aka: the Norwalk virus. Look it up. This virus, which, in my mind, is actually a modified version of the Bubonic Plague, sucks so much donkey ass that I don't know where to start.

First and foremost, the way you get this Plague is quite disgusting.

Yeah--you guessed it: poop-to-mouth contact.

I, Karen the Great, self-described germaphobe who washes her hands or showers after every little task, got the poop-to-mouth Plague.

What. The. Fuck.

Secondly, the Plague appears out of nowhere. No, really. Literally, at 3:30 pm I was feeling fine--my jovially bitchy self. In fact, I was BETTER than fine. I actually felt less tired than I usually do. By 4:00 pm I was feeling quite nauseated and by 5:00 pm I was pulling over the side of route 93 barfing every 10 minutes.

Thirdly, the Plague has no mercy for at LEAST a full 24 hours. What I mean by this is that you are barfing or shitting or both like there is no tomorrow, every 5 minutes OR LESS. I am NOT exaggerating here, kids. You are VIOLENTLY ill. This is really gross but we're all adults here so I'm going to say it anyway--I was actually sitting on the throne, barfing into a bucket and all the while praying to the Lord Jesus that He would just let me die. I didn't care if I had to go to Heaven or Hell--just please, no more.

I recall bargaining with God. "God, if you'll be so kind as to stop the barfing and pooping within the next ten minutes, I'll join the Sisters of Mercy and be the most devoted nun EVER. I will be beatified and announced a saint BEFORE my death--THAT is how devoted I will be."

Alas and alack, however, Jesus did not relieve my symptoms within the next ten minutes. He must have known I was just kidding about the whole nun thing.

By the way, you never quite realize how much you actually eat in a couple of days until you barf it all up. Incredible. Truly astounding. At one point, there I was, barfing in a bucket, thinking, "There couldn't POSSIBLY be anything left in me!" when--lo and behold--there was. MUCH more.

Fourth, the Plague makes you very, very tired. And dehydrated. Anyone who knows me knows how very much I loathe and detest needles. But since I would yak up any water I drank within a minute or two of drinking it, I actually asked my mother to take me to the hospital for an IV.

She didn't take me, though. She must have thought I was delirious. I could have 16 bullet wounds in me and I'd ask the surgeons if they could operate without using an IV.

Fortunately, all this happened two weeks ago, so I am well over it by now.

My parents, however, just got it. And now, when you walk in the house, it smells of death.

Because that's exactly what the Plague is: death. I am absolutely convinced I died last weekend and miraculously rose from the grave.

So, yeah--that's what I've been up to.

Fuck you, Lenscrafters. Fuck you, Keebler Elves!

I bought a new pair of sunglasses last summer. I need prescription eyeglasses and I hate contacts, so it's truly something I need.

But because I either didn't take care of them well enough or because they make pure shit nowadays, one of the lenses got so scratched that I would rather suffer with the sun in my eyes on Route 93 than wear them because they were so annoying.

Also, I had had the frames adjusted a million times and no matter what, they just didn't fit that right anymore. Before you tell me how fucked up it is that I would buy frames that didn't fit me well to begin with, they USED to fit well before some little fucking Keebler elf got into my purse/car/wherever one leaves sunglasses and fucked with them during the night, so they got all misshapen.

Yeah--that's my theory. Screw you if you don't believe it. Keebler elves are real. And they fuck with sunglasses for shits and giggles and it makes me MAD.

So, I sucked it up and realized I had to go to Lenscrafters and get a new pair. I pick up a cheat pair of frames for $59.95 and ask the guy to put in the cheapest lenses he can.

Yeah. $202.49 later.

So this is why Lenscrafters can kiss my ass.

And they weren't even done in an hour!

I'm suing the Keebler elves for damages. Little bitches.

"Just put cheese on YOUR broccoli, not mine."

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

Holy shit!

I am still slightly hungover from last night's wine spree. I do NOT need this this morning.

J.C. is a man who works in the cubicle diagonal from mine.

J.C. is a very nice man--don't get me wrong. Sometimes, he's more than mildly amusing and he's definitely, well, quirky. And quirkiness can be amusing at times. And he's genuinely a decent person, really.

But sweet Lord in Heaven, he is ever-so-slowly driving me insane. Like fucking Chinese-water-torture insane. He may be the most annoying person I've ever come across with ZERO--and I mean ZERO--consideration for the people around him.

I spoke about Fred a short while ago here: http://throwingtomatoesbackatthecrowd.blogspot.com/2006/09/fred.html

Well, Fred was nothing compared to this.

Again, J.C. is a good man. When I'm not in my shitty cubicle trying to conentrate on something or another, he's perfectly likable, I suppose.

But he is the LOUDEST individual I have ever come across.

For starters, he sings. Like, when people are trying to write stuff. In public affairs, we write shit. As a result, we need to be able to concentrate once in a while in ORDER to write anything even semi-decent. This is now fucking IMPOSSIBLE because J.C. is ALWAYS FUCKING SINGING.

Now, J.C. has a nice voice, don't get me wrong. But I don't give two shits HOW nice his voice is, it pisses me the fuck off when I'm trying to write about something that I'm ALREADY frustrated over because I'm not really interested in it to BEGIN with.

Secondly, J.C.--get a fucking set of headphones, for the love of Christ. I am ever-so sick and tired of listening to "Celtic Woman" over and over again at a way-too-high-volume for the workplace. And when I'm not listening to random Irish music, I'm listening to a recording of some interview you conducted with some colonel or some presentation you gave at some event.

As a matter of fact, right now, I am listening to some web-streamed awards event that you have at a ridiculously high volume. I hear crazy fucking Star-Wars-like music that I just don't want to hear now or EVER.

I don't know if you are deaf, sir. But if you are, perhaps I should learn "turn down the volume and use your headphones" in fucking sign language.

Thirdly, J.C. talks to himself. A lot. He speaks, out loud, at least half of the time, every single task he does. No, really. Imagine hearing this man, typing out a story, saying the following:

"...the...air...force's...initiative...is...quite...innovative...says...colonel...stevens...period....spacebar..."

Yeah. I kid you not.

Fourthly, the whistling. Really. No further explanation necessary. Jesus Christ Himself would be annoyed at constant whistling of the William Tell overture. Enough.

Fifthly (if fifthly is actually a word), his wife calls his cell phone. AROUND THE CLOCK. It's 8:30 a.m. and she just called to ask him if he wanted cheese on his broccoli tonight at dinner. I kid you not. And this wouldn't be so bad if I couldn't hear every word both of them said or if his fucking ringtone wasn't so damn annoying ("Sex and the City" song).

Broccoli and cheese does sound good right now.

But I digress.

And finally, J.C. feels it 110% completely necessary to actually ANNOUNCE whenever he enters or exits his desk area. He will actually SCREAM, "OK, all! I'm taking off!" or will whistle or sing some sort of exit/entrance song. It's as if he feels as if you NEED to know whether he's there or not.

I mean, what the fuck? Do you have your own Catholic Mass or something? Do we really need to have an entrance and exit hymn EVERY FUCKING DAY? Please stop.

Sometimes, I listen to J.C., frustrated that this, my friends, THIS is what my life has come to. All the hard work. All the schooling. It has come to my sitting in a cramped cubicle, listening to a grown man behave like a child who is nothing but content to disturb the people around him on a constant basis.

Yes, my friends. I wonder every day why I have not yet offed myself.