It had to happen sooner or later.
I'm surprised it took this long. Yep, I went out and got a good case of food poisoning.
I've had it before, so I recognised the feeling. The last time was long ago, when I was young and foolish. I'd eaten one of those hideous so-called roast beef subs from a local mini-mart. I don't know why I ate it; I might have been stoned at the time. When you're wrecked, you'll eat anything.
Regardless, it laid me out flat on my back for four days. Well ... not entirely on my back; when I wasn't lying around groaning, I was either sitting, or on my knees. It was a bad one. How I escaped hospitalisation I'll never know.
During my time in Hong Kong, I've eaten either Chinese or Western food without getting sick, even from the scuzziest little Chinese restaurants.
It took a Japanese buffet-style restaurant to lay me low. Mabel's coworkers were having a dinner party and they wanted me to join them. I went along though I was concerned about the available menu, since most of the Japanese restaurants serve seafood, which I can't eat.
The place looked clean; the food was neatly laid out and well-heated. The restaurant even a small selection of food I could eat. I relaxed and ate with everyone else. I didn't eat much, and thus I suspect the barbecued chicken skewers were what nailed me.
Food poisoning never hits you right away.
I didn't notice anything unusual after I returned home. In fact, I was feeling so good, I stayed up late and quaffed three large bottles of Heineken. Unbeknownst to me, the bacteria were having a field day in my guts. The beer hardly helped matters.
When I awoke the next morning, I was in rough shape. I didn't have a hangover; I didn't drink that much, but the disgusting taste in my mouth convinced me to run to the sink to brush and rinse. When I finished, I noticed my guts were churning around... a lot.
Not a good sign.
I sat at my computer for a while, but it became clear I was more ill than I'd thought. I crawled back into bed and slept for a couple of hours. Waking the second time was worse.
I spent the better portion of the day trying not to pray to the porcelain god. The nauseous feeling wouldn't go away. I hadn't hurled since I woke, but it felt imminent. Had I spewed, I might have felt better, but I hate to throw up. I'll do anything to keep from throwing up.
This bout was a medium-grade case. I ate a bit of supper, though my innards were still doing the Funky Chicken. Come to think of it, it was funky chicken that caused this mess. The food stayed down, but you can be damned sure I didn't drinking any beer. The thought alone made my stomach do flip-flops.
Today, my plumbing still feels loosey-goosey, and I'm uninterested in eating chicken.
I might consider it when my intestines stop dancing.
August 7, 2000
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