I’m not a medical expert. Sure, I have one of those Ph.D.s and you can call me Doctor. But I wouldn't know a renal gland from a Caeserean section. Still, I know how to navigate WebMD. And I’m pretty sure the bastards food-poisoned me.
Who are these bastards? Well, to avoid legal ramifications, I’ll just say that I will never again eat at a certain fast food chain that shares its name with an underground urban transportation system. I shouldn’t have eaten there anyway but it was just too hot to walk anywhere else during yesterday’s lunch hour. It's my deepest regret.
Thus, the hours between 8:00 and 11:00 last night were the most physically painful hours I’ve ever spent, at least since the Chicago hotel incident of ’95. What did they put in that tuna, I ask?
Okay, okay, I don’t want to make you queasy. I feel so much better now. I didn’t even call in sick. No, I braved the drive back to the city that poisoned me. I’m saving my sick days for the revolution. Or maybe the apocalypse. Or perhaps just a cool gray day in October.