Wouldn’t Wish It on My Worst Enemy. Or Would I?

Nah.  I’m not that vindictive.  This Noro Virus.  Hellaciously bad.  Already been in the hospital.  So now I’m in a chair, unable to be more than ten feet from a bathroom, watching the Vatican Poperization.

It’s kinda cool the way the retiring Pope climbed into his high tech helicopter and flew off while tweeting in Latin from his cell phone.  Now that is the modern church.  I just hope those involved in choosing the new Pope pick a good one.

You might think it doesn’t matter to a Jew, but really it does matter.  It may matter more to me than to a lot of Catholics I know.

So the dog is all depressed because I can’t take him anywhere.  I’ve stripped my bed to wash the germs out of my sheets.  Jake decided it was a good opportunity to muddy up my mattress.

My poor depressed GSD.

My poor depressed GSD.

Hope I’ll be back to normal by next week.  This long string of illnesses totally sucks eggs.

I’m Infected. Run far. But you don’t have to run fast.

Some zombies are runners, some walkers, some crawlers. I’m a shuffler.

Here’s my theory:

My husband catches a virus. He puts on his sweats, a stocking cap and slippers and barely moves for an entire week.  I nurse him back to health.

Over that five to seven day period, his body incubates the virus, making ever so minute but ever so significant changes in the viral RNA, so when at last he burns out and infects me, the virus has morphed into some kind of Zombie Superbug.

For which there is no cure.

Seriously.  I can feel it cooking in my body.  I can’t sleep, can’t eat.  Can’t even eat people, not yet.  All I do is shuffle from room to room.  Barely cognizant of my surroundings.

So this is how a budding zombie feels as she succumbs. I can’t imagine ripping someone’s throat out with my teeth. I barely have the strength to lift a glass of juice.

Sorry, couldn’t resist. Too funny.