I Do Not Need to Hear This

If you follow the pressing issues of the day as closely as I do, you know that a stomach virus is “going around.” There is no question that having such an ailment truly sucks.  It is, in my book, among the worst non-lethal conditions you can contract.  As a proud hypochondriac and severe barf-o-phobic, I truly feel the pain of those who suffer. However, it is NOT — repeat NOT — necessary for you to share, in graphic detail, what happens to your GI tract during this contaminated time in your life.  Really. It’s very nice of you, but I GET IT. Is there anyone among us who thinks the main symptom of a stomach virus is a rash?

A few weeks ago, I was getting my tresses cut at the Dramatics near my abode. Why I get my haircut at Dramatics on the border of the ghetto is another story, but let’s just say that I once paid almost $200 for someone with the initials F.F. to seriously botch my bangs beyond forgiveness, so I now refuse to enter fancy salons.  Anyway, while I was undergoing a coiff by a stylist named Topaz, a gentleman sat in the chair next to me. His stylist, Blossom, was about 6 feet tall and 300 pounds. While Blossom certainly did not appear to be starving, I heard her tell the gentleman that she had not eaten in three days because she been unable to keep anything down. That’s too bad, I thought, wishing Topaz would hurry up and start blow-drying.

I imagined that Blossom would shut the fuck up at that point, but she did not.

“On Wednesday night I ate veal parm for dinner. Puked the whole night. Thursday, my boyfriend brought me soup. Puked. That night I ate half a baked potato. Puked. The next day, half a bagel. Puked. This morning, cereal. Retching like a dog.”

I wanted to swivel around and say a few things including, Blossom, how is it possible you have a boyfriend?, You shouldn’t be eating ‘veal parm,’ You obviously HAVE eaten in the last three days so stop lying, and above all, If you are that sick, WHY are you at work, breathing right into the face of your clients?

The good news is that she’d obviously made her point. Her customer and most of the salon now knew she didn’t feel well and I, for one, could spend the rest of the weekend worrying about her germs. But Blossom had more to say on the subject. I’ll spare you the gore, but suffice it to say, I learned, the strain of stomach virus Blossom had also prompted frequent, unpleasant trips to the bathroom and a hefty supply of toilet paper. Blossom, that is just FANTASTIC.

A similar incident transpired a few days later at my office, where one of our freelancers felt a moral obligation to chronicle not only her own intestinal plight, but that of her two small children.

“Well, I felt fine on Christmas Eve but started to feel sick around 10. I thought, ‘Oh crap I hope I’m not getting sick.’ But I was. GOD was I getting sick. I don’t think I’ve ever vomited that much.”

Clearly, she had mistaken me for someone who worked for the Guinness Book of World Ralphage. And I HATE the word “vomit.”

“Then the next day, after throwing up A LUNG, I thought I was okay and went to the store to get wrapping paper. MISTAKE! BLEH — all over the Shoebox Greetings shelf.” [Insert the laughter of an unstable woman.]

She really was a beautiful storyteller. When the shocker ending came — she recovered a day or two later — I was just so disappointed that there was no more.

But wait, there was! Little Dylan Taylor and Jackson Rose (not sure which was the daughter and which was the son) ALSO got sick! Can you believe that?

Sadly, her husband was able to fight off the virus.

You might ask why, if I am so opposed to stories like these, I’m writing one. It is my responsibility to do so. For the love of god, if you are barfing for any reason other than overindulgence in alcohol or morning sickness, KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.

Thank you.

Riggards,
T

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I Do Not Need to Hear This

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