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.