Synopsis of the past 120 hours:
Friday 3:30pm: I let B.Franklin out the back door and get a whiff of barf. Thinking the people downstairs have gone back to the partying I run back inside before I meet my Waterloo.
Friday 5:30pm: B.Franklin wants back inside. I open the back door, sure enough barf smell is still there. Maybe it’s not the neighbors? It’s hot so I stick my head in Frank’s condo to check for rotting bird carcass. Nada. Going back indoors, I stay away from the area for the remainder of the evening.
Saturday 10am: Chris is outside on the deck monkeying with the plants. Wafting through the open bathroom window I SWEAR IS THE SCENT OF BARF. Maybe it’s in my head??
Saturday 10:30am: I go outside to join Chris who casually mumbles, ‘You haven’t said anything so I guess that extra dirt must be working.’
Saturday 10:31am: I LOSE MY SHIT UPON VIEWING THE COMPOST PAIL HE’S BEEN HIDING NEXT TO MY PLUMERIAS.
Go ahead and barf, I almost did.
Saturday 10:33am: Chris assures me he has covered the barf stench (see I’m not losing it after all) with extra dirt while I, now affirmed in my stench identification prowess, gag into the morning breeze.
Saturday 12pm: Earthing at the beach! Can’t seem to get the image of that compost out of my mind.
Saturday 2:30pm: Eat a burger/no bun at the local joint.
Saturday 7:30pm: Join friends for a birthday party. Eat a chicken taco and some guacamole + 4 teaspoons of black beans.
Saturday midnight: Go to bed feeling kinda woozy.
Sunday 2am: B.Franklin comes over and wakes me up, paw to the cheek. I’m sweaty. <panic> Is this a hot flash?! Back to sleep.
Sunday 7:45am: Hey Chris, wanna go for a walk?
Sunday 7:47am: Hey Chris, I don’t feel so good.
Sunday 7:50am: Hey Chris, I think I’m gonna throw up. Chris <not opening eyes>: Go back to sleep.
Sunday 1:37pm: <wakes up> Hey Chris, I’m siiii-iiick. No, I’m REALLLLLY SIIIIIIIICK. <Sharp shooting stomach pains accompanied by weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth.> Chris brings Canada Dry.
Sunday 2pm: Chris. Chris. CHRIS! Chris <appears in doorway>: What?! Me: I think we’re gonna have to 911 it. Chris: We are not calling 911.
Sunday 3pm: Chris wants fast food. What would I like? I’m green. He brings me In-n-Out French Fries because he ‘doesn’t want to feel bad’. He knows it was the compost. Delusional, I eat them.
Sunday 3:15pm through 11pm: sleeps, cries, sucks on mint gum, tries not to throw up, races back and forth from bathroom, swigs wild oil of oregano while chasing with water (if this is a bacterial issue I will annihilate that beyotch) all while Law & Order Marathon plays quietly in the background.
Sunday 11pm: Woman turns grey and tumbles from commode while softly calling, ‘help….help…..help me’ on the way down. Regains consciousness shaking on the bathroom floor, covered in a pile of towels and a sheet?
Sunday 11:10pm? (can’t be certain, was incapacitated) : Chris shrieks from other room: ‘Don’t move, I’m googling it!’
Sunday 11:30: Back in bed, munching on TUMS. Too sick to cry and convinced I’m dying.
Monday 10:30am: Tries to sit up, gags, weeps, passes out.
Monday 1pm: Opens eyes: IT WAS THE COMPOST. Falls back to sleep.
Monday 2pm to 6pm: The Americans marathon while lying very still. Benjamin Franklin lies next to me with his paw on my face. Occasionally I sip water + oregano oil. Can’t move due to extreme nausea, save the occasional sprint to the bathroom. <Chris padded the tile with towels and sheets prior to leaving for work.>
Monday 7pm: Valiant attempt at a tablespoon of rice.
Monday 7:10pm: Just thankful I didn’t wake up on the bathroom floor this time.
Monday 10pm: Food commercials making me nauseous. Everything is meaningless, no one cares, a cry for the terminally ill, closes eyes and waits to die.
Tuesday 8am: Chris wakes me up, ‘Whoa, it smells like curry (b.o.?) + oregano oil in here!’ Guess I’m not dead yet.
Tuesday 11am: First shower in 72 hours. Manage not to pass out in the tub.
Tuesday 12pm: Chris goes to work, B.Franklin continues to stand vigil over my wasting flesh. Wise beyond understanding (see below:)
Tuesday 12pm to 9pm: more gagging, some Canada Dry, two pins, gas, a swig of oregano oil, not much sympathy from my mother. I realize I haven’t eaten in 96 hours and I DO NOT CARE.
Tuesday 11pm: Why am I watching the Teen Mom 2 finale? Dr. Drew grosses me out (and it’s not the compost). Wait a second here, JENELLE’S PREGNANT AGAIN???
Wednesday 7:35am: B.Franklin pounces on my head while I pretend to be sleeping. Pointless.
Wednesday 7:36am: I can sit up without my eyes rolling back in my head. I SMELL VICTORY AND IT DOES NOT SMELL LIKE BARF (or compost).
Wednesday 8:00am: I put on street clothes, I do not gag.
Wednesday 8:15am: We walk to the beach, my atrophied muscles barely holding me up. I earth, I am free, IS THAT COMPOST GONE YET?
Wednesday 9am: Back in bed, I sip water.
Wednesday 11am to 3pm: Ignore the telephone.
Wednesday 3:30pm: I write this and go back to bed.
There is no justice (except Benjamin Franklin) in this wicked world.