Could be a bit of undercooked sausage. Could be demons.

(March 30, 2004)

As the cruel sickly gray of dawn began to wash through the living room shades this morning, I threw out a feverish mental plea to any god that would listen to please, please just make it stop. I was THIS CLOSE to either sacrificing a virgin to Yahweh, or calling Michelle to shuttle me to the hospital, convinced that my intestine had ruptured again.

If it had, I swear to god, I'd have said "just give me something for the pain and let me die this time."

With no virgins handy for sacrificing (this IS Rock City and home to BU) I moved on to the logical thought that was lurking just below the sensory blanket of cold sweats and cramping: I got terribly sick not long after eating the red beans & rice I'd made, with sausage, so, logically, I was pretty sure I'd poisoned myself. Luckily for Joe, by the time he got home from rehearsal at about 11, I was well into a really good stomachache and advised, rather coolly I thought, "Don't eat that."

He rubbed my head until I fell into a sort of fitful sleep, but I was up again soon. It's hard to sleep through jaw-clamping, gut-wrenching waves of cramps, nausea, cold sweats, vomiting until only dry heaves remained and constipation that later becomes constipation's exact opposite.

COULD have been demons. But it was probably sausage.

Just in case, I'm going to get a stock of Alka-Seltzer and a few leeches and cupping cups.