I’m the host with the most

So I’ve been sick on and off for almost a month now, in a weird stomach-but-not-flu way that comes and goes unexpectedly and sporadically, and kind of zapped my appetite and ability to really enjoy food, and whose effects never seemed to last more than about a day. And since I’m unusually succeptible to food poisoning and such, I just assumed it was a series of flukes of that vein, and thought nothing of it. Until I had to miss work TWICE in one month, at a job that I love and hate to be absent from. So last Friday I finally went to the doctor to figure it out. So what, you may ask, was the problem?

Turns out I’m a HOST. I have PARASITES. More specifically, some sort of flagellated protozoa. I don’t remember which kind. Nor do I care, frankly, as long as they DIE. But seriously, how gross and, more importantly, UNFAIR is that? Why unfair, you ask? Because my friend Steve went travelling in Vietnam, Cambodia, Argentina, and Mexico in the past couple months, eating whatever he came into contact with and felt like consuming, raw or not, risky or not, and he came out fine, whereas I got frickin’ PARASITES by staying on domestic land and eating food from the Whole Foods deli or something. Screw that!

Anyway, this is probably the most unpleasant blog posting I’ve ever done, but I’m just mad at the little fuckers for taking away my joie de vivre/et manger for so long. Jerks. For the first time in my life, I think I’m happy to be on a terrifyingly powerful medicine that wipes out all life in my body. I hope they’re sentient so they can feel their impending death. Die parasites die!

P.S. To everyone I’ve turned down a brunch/lunch/dinner date with in the past month – let’s go eat!

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