I was hungry. And lazy. And cheap. So I picked up ten 50¢ tacos from Jack in the Box. They hit the spot.

And then some.

I woke up early, the sun just beginning to peek through the blinds. I stood up and fell down. I was dizzy. You know, that kind of dizzy when you're drunk, high, eating fast food and painting the walls in a small, unventilated room. Only I had spent the night innocently asleep, dreaming innocent dreams.

And then my stomach decided throwing up was a good idea. I felt better, stood up, and fell back down again. Then I threw up some more. And... then some more. And... then some more.

This vicious cycle repeated all morning, into the afternoon. I was deflated, dehydrated, and still I could not leave the comforting caress of the toilet. Not even for a cup of coffee.

I was so overwhelmingly devastated by this attack that I couldn't make it to work (which consists of walking six feet over to the computer). It felt as though demons were were playing battle shogi in my innards.

Then the sickness passed, as mysteriously as it had appeared. It would seem tainted meat is no match for my hyperactive metabolism.

I am immortal.

Has a restaurant ever tried to kill you?