Fess up.

I've been laid out all weekend with a variety of ills - first, the crabbiness. Oh my god, the crabby. The kind of crabby that makes you cancel plans, not because you don't objectively understand that going out with your friends will make you feel better, but because you're afraid at evening's end you just won't have any friends left. Alive.

After the crabby came the sore throat, which, miraculously only lasted about 12 hours. It did, however, engineer a night of wasted sleep, after which I rolled out of bed at 4:10 am, after spending the entire night in terror that I was going to awaken with H1N1 or the plague, and have to go into work anyway (because there is no one to call when you wake up at 4am with projectile vomiting).

Somewhere before the wasted six hours of not sleep, I ate some crackers and a bowl of soup, which somehow made me violently ill. The kind of ill where you are walking around and you suddenly realize that your stomach muscles are sore. Sore from hurting so badly, since you've kind of ignored your abs in favor of your triceps at the gym this week (fyi: 45 pound tricep extension? I am a badass. A badass without bingo wings).

So, I'm still there with the violently ill, though there is a lack of actual violence involved. My stomach hurts, and when my stomach doesn't hurt, I am nauseated, and when I am neither nauseated or hurting, my stomach is sore from the memory of the pain. On the bright side, I have a new appreciation for sourdough toast and rewatching Grey's Anatomy.

I hate that I'm not outside gardening today.

All of this is a preamble to telling you that my roommates (who are out at a bar and out with a new boy) and myself blinked into the realization at approximately 9:27 last night that the three of us, 25, 26, and 27, were all at home on Saturday evening, sitting in the living room.

Brushing each of the cats in turn and exclaiming over the disgusting efficacy of the furminator.

And I'm just saying that my stomach bug has to get me out of claiming ownership of that one.