My friend at work, Don, has been ill for days. I tell him the quickest way to get better is to pass the bacteria to somebody else, and he answers, in between coughing fits, that its proving difficult because the bacteria he acquired is a lot clingy.
Have I mentioned there is a massive, massive, massive chance I’m the one who infected him?
Anyway, he is holding strong, coming to work every day despite feeling every bit like a mangled and over boiled broccoli. Last night, Eljay and Mae, my other friends at work, were wondering if he’ll make it today, and he did, albeit a bit better.
But the point of this story is this: I am reminded of how I bravely press on at work when I’m sick, but when I’m home, I’m like “Call the priest…”
I don’t do it on purpose really, but the idea is so hilarious. My sister hates me for it, saying I’m bound to give my mother an aneurysm pop from excessive worrying over me.
Another thought I have regarding being sick at work is to stop lying about sick days. You know what I mean, calling in sick when you just really binged on pretzels, buttered popcorn, and beer the night before that you were left on a food coma, so you missed the morning alarm.
I thought you can shake things up one time and call in dead for a change. Any takers? No? Fine. You people are no fun.