Welcome to the March 10 version of “sounds to lunch by,” featuring the dulcet tones of rigorous vomiting.
Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t give you much warning there, did I? My bad… But honestly? I didn’t get one either. All’s fair in love and blogs.
Unfortunately, just as most of us in Evanston Cube Farmville were unwrapping our sandwiches around noon today (hey, what do you know — I have peanut butter again today!) the girl who sits in the cube kitty-corner from mine began puking. Into her garbage can. For three solid minutes.
But, Ang! Three minutes? Really? Everyone knows that you’re given to exaggeration… That can’t possibly be true…
People, we’re talking Exorcist-level yarfing, six feet from my chair. Trust me when I say it was three minutes. It lasted long enough for damn near every coworker in our wing to finally meander over to check on her, or to bring her water, or to gawk awkwardly, or — my personal favorite — to comment that at least she had a “bag of vomit” to deal with instead of a messy workstation.
What the fucking fuck? Who says that? And hey — more soup, anyone?
Don’t get me wrong, I feel *terrible* for her. There is nothing more miserable in this world than throwing up. It’s absolutely unholy. And to have to do it in public, AT WORK… Yes, please, pile some public embarrassment onto my moment(s) of otherwise feeling like total crap!
Poor girl. I’m genuinely mortified on her behalf.
Of course, that didn’t stop the rest of us from quickly crossing ourselves, slathering on the hand sanitizer so frequently we acquired a collective contact high, meeting in the kitchen for shots of Airborne, and audibly muttering, “Sweet Jesus, thank you for not seating me near any social pukers.”
(Okay, that last one was just me.)
Excerpted IM exchange, two hours later:
Dude who sits next to Linda Blair: do you think we’d be hurling right now if we caught the bug?
Me: doubt it. dunno how long flu takes to incubate, but probs longer than 2 hrs.
DWSNTLB: uggggggh. i don’t want to be here now. i’m scared.
Me: i can’t get the sound out of my head.
DWSNTLB: right? it sounded like she was dying.
Me: i feel bad saying this, but… i know. it sounded like she was being turned inside out. or birthing an alien. one of those.
I am working inside a Petri dish. Send hazmat suits. And priests. Priests wearing hazmat suits!
Note: Invoking Linda Blair & The Exorcist represents the most terrifying imagery Cirque Management can fathom, thanks to a babysitter-forced viewing around age 7. In fact, the film so thoroughly scarred Management that locating any link more visceral than IMDB was impossible, due to violent shaking. Now stop reading this post and go take your vitamins. With a priest.