(reenactment)

CHIANG MAI, THAILAND
For all the inadvisable, unappetizing and downright terrible things I’ve eaten in my life I’d never actually contracted a foodborne illness. Sure, I’d had some queasiness from half-cooked beef and painful bathroom visits after going a little crazy with the chili powder, but I’ve watched people come down with full-on food poisoning and always thanked the cuisine gods for their protection.

Well holy crap, I must have done something to turn my luck around. For twenty four hours I wrestled with some diabolical creature that destroyed everything I’ve ever believed in, a febrile monster borne of a dimension that knows only loathing. I was no longer a man; I was a wretched, sweat-soaked ball of pain, shivering and crying out for someone to end my torment. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t drink, I could do naught but beg for the sweet release of death. That night what little sleep I managed was half in bed and half in the bathroom.

I woke up feverless, but with a GI tract that felt like it’d been gnawed on by the family pet. After two days of eating nothing but watery prison soup and chugging something called “Belcid” I think I’m nearly whole again, but I have to go all the way to Burma and back tomorrow and nearly isn’t going to cut it.

Oh well. Compared to all the other horrible diseases I could have gotten I think I got off pretty easy. I don’t think it was the bugs, but I probably won’t be eating fifteen cent sushi from the market anymore. My money’s on the lovely norovirus.