I hate being sick. It seems like I talk about it a lot. You, dear reader, may not realize it unless you've been cyber stalking me, which seems like a bad idea, approximately 99% of the internet is way more interesting than me. 
 But it's still true. I tend to get sick about once, maybe twice, a year. When I do. I write about it. I think I wrote something about it just a couple of months ago when I kinda sorta got a little sick and I complained about it for about 2000 words or so. 
 But this time, this was one of those once-in-a-decade incidents where I'm pretty sure I'm standing at the precipice of death, looking out at that oblivion beyond and toying with the idea of taking one more step. 
 A fall into the black. 
 And I know I'm feeling bad when I'm thinking about in those terms, and all I can think of is what a sweet release death would be from the torment that is my pained, pitiful existence. 
 I learned some stuff while I was sick. Because even with a fever of 102 and the mental faculties of an old dog, I wanted to do science. 
 I went for about 4 days where my diet consisted entirely of the following: 
 *	Water (clear) 
 *	Dayquil (bright Orange) 
 *	Ibuprofen (White?) 
 *	Tylenol (White?) 
 *	Theraflu (Yellow) 
 *	Nyquil (navy Blue) 
 *	Citrus flavored throat lozenges (Yellowish) 
 *	Mucus (lime Green) 
 *	1 bowl of Lucky Charms cereal (in unsweetened Almond Milk) 
 That bowl of Lucky Charms came at the end of the 4 days. It's pertinent because I had a bout of diarrhea at the end of that that is worthy of a song sung by a Viking warrior - or maybe a poem recited by some bard. 
 It was in the toilet, yes, but could also be found on the lid, the floor, by pants, underwear, my legs, the baseboards along the wall, and maybe a little on the bathroom sink. I heard noises that I'd previously believed to be only digital creations of a movie being mixed at Skywalker sound. I wept when it was over. I surveyed the damage and was reminded of that episode of Breaking Bad when Walt and Jessie were trying to figure out how to get rid of the body of the man Walt had just murdered. Remember? Jessie decided to use the acid, but put it all in the bathtub upstairs and everything came crashing down from the ceiling? 
 Except this was real life. And I was using this as an opportunity to learn, remember. Because I sat there, looking at the damage I'd caused, was thinking about the cleanup, when I noted the room was actually prettier now. 
 I shit had become something beautiful. It looked like Slurm from Futurama... or, if you're not a fan of the show, it looked a lot like a bottle of Mountain Dew exploded. 
 No, more like one of those glowsticks, the green ones. That's what blew up. One of those. 
 Also, I lost 10 pounds. So far, getting sick is starting to sound like it has some benefits. 
 Best I can figure it, the bowl of cereal was the mentos that got dumped into that diet coke what was the 4 days of meds that rested in my stomach. 
 What a week. I'd point out that during this week, when I wasn't sleeping for 20 plus hours a day, shit that came out like an exploding fire extinguisher, and watching a bit of TV with my one good eye, I read this book. 
 As it was, this book was amazing. One of the best 5 books I've read in the past year, easy. Something about revenge from a poor miner boy from the backwoods of Mars. I went out and bought the just released sequel as soon as I finished (well, I ordered it) and started reading it right off the bat upon its arrival. 
 This was epic. Epic like me shitting myself was. Actually, maybe this book was what sat all this off. Now that I think of it. That has to be it. 
 So this book is that good. It'll make your poo fly explosively from your anus. Enjoy the ride.