I'm gonna spare everyone most of the details, but while the rest of DC was out playing in the snow Friday night and Saturday, I found myself spending that time alternately doubled over the toilet vomiting and shitting my innards out, or curled into the fetal position, shivering and sweating, praying to God for a quick and merciful death.
I caught a Norovirus (see image above) from working at the hospital Thursday, and I was its little bitch for about 24 hours this weekend. At first I thought it was food poisoning, but after some emails and phone calls I discovered on Saturday that it was a nasty acquired virus.
The worst part: by about 2 am Saturday morning, after a few hours of dry-heaves and delirium, I began to feel like I was going to die. Alone. Even my landlords, who were in Colorado on vacation, were not around to rescue me if I needed them. I began thinking that I was somehow going to die in my bed that night, and it would be a week - at least - until anyone found my dead, dehydrated carcass.
It was enough to make a guy start to weep. Which I'm fairly certain I did. Although I can't be 100% confident since I also seem to recall having a deep and insightful conversation with my ceiling fan and barking like a dog before finally succumbing to fever-induced sleep sometime around 3 am.
Moral of the story: Find a boyfriend or girlfriend. That way, if you contract a norovirus someone will know if you die from it.
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