This, my friends, is an intravenous line. In MY arm. And not just any IV, oh no... This is an IV that cures severe dehydration and three-minute-apart contractions for a pregnant lady that isn't quite ready to have a baby or shrivel up like a slug who just had salt poured all over it. This is a (not so little) needle sent straight down from heaven whose job it is to pump six bags of salt and potassium filled liquid in ones veins which, subsequently, keeps one from dying.

Dramatic, I know, but dying is exactly what I felt like doing for three days this week in the hospital. I didn't even come close to dying but I was beyond miserable and let's just say that whatever decided to burrow in my intestines is no longer welcome. My stomach showed him who's boss, gave him a run for the money, made him earn his keep... you catching my drift?

As a result of sweet little stomach fucker who turned my world upside down, I think my body is boycotting me and any food which could be termed 'a party in ones mouth'. I've come to this conclusion because every time I begin to even think about eating something that makes me resemble one of Pavlov's dogs, my stomach becomes a magician and does some really fun and impressive tricks. And I'll just leave it at that.

I dreamed of bathing in cheese last night if that gives you any indication of where my mental stability currently lies. I'm off to drink more ginger ale. I am really beginning to hate ginger ale.



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