I take an obscene amount of vitamins. I drink gallons of water. I wash my hands like an obsessive compulsive. Why the fuck am I so sick? You don't just get sick. Someone makes you sick. On purpose. So they don't have to suffer alone.
When I get this sick, I just want to backtrack and find the filthy ass that afflicted me with this cursed malady. Was it my ill mother, who forced me to bring her a popscicle, entering her sphere of bacteria? Was it my darling brother, who coughed into his hand then smacked me on the head with it? Was it the dreadful child at Trader Joe's, sneezing onto the produce? Could it have been the elderly Asian man, spitting green slime onto the sidewalk inches from my clogs?
Regardless, I want to find this dying creature and finish them off. I can barely breathe, I'm out of the good tea, and my DVD player appears to be broken. Perhaps I was a Nazi or something equally evil in my former life, because I'm clearly being punished for something big. Thus, I'll crawl back into bed, curse the disgusting creature that spewed their disease upon me, and watch my VHS copy of Home Alone.