When I get sick I normally believe it’s just a mental thing that I can overcome by using "mind-over-matter" tricks I learned from watching a TV special on Tibetan monks. But in this case my cable-TV-learned voodoo could not defeat the Spanish bacteria tearing apart my stomach.
After ignoring all symptoms for days, I decided I was just a soldier among the ranks of Kellen Winslow and Percy Miller and the best way to remedy this mentally-insane driven illness was to go out to dinner. As I sat there sipping my vino tinto molecule-by-molecule and ghostly staring at my food with full knowledge that whatever I managed to put down would be coming back up momentarily, I realized I was neither a "fucking soldier" or a "soulja," but just a fucking idiot for going out in the first place.
We left dinner early and took a cab back toward our apartment, I got out and promptly began to throw up all over La Rambla de Raval, an oval-shaped plaza near our apartment that's not quite as ideal as a toilet in terms of places I should be throwing up.
I spent the next four days vomiting, diarrhea-ing, and staying couch ridden, which allowed me to re-familiarize myself with the entire blogosphere — essentially doing the same thing I’d be doing if I was working, except for the whole expelling all substances in my body part. And I sat on a purple couch instead of an office chair, that part was nice.
The kind soul that she is, Sarah went to the farmacia to pick me up some medicine, pantomiming all my illnesses to compensate for lack of Spanish-speaking skills. I took the prescribed potion and proceeded to spend a lot more time in the bathroom. Right after I gulped my fourth dose of the mystery Spanish medication, I decided it might be a good idea to Google exactly what I was taking and figure out perhaps if I lost something (other than control of bowels) in translation. I then learned that Primperan stops vomiting, but induces diarrhea. Dammit. I couldn’t believe I fell for the oldest trick in the book: get engaged, move to Barcelona, get really sick, and have your prometida give you medicine that gives you diarrhea.
Then because I’m a complete idiot I took a bunch of medication that Sarah brought home despite the fact that every word on it was in Russian (why the meds were Russian is a post for another day). Like anyone who takes pharmaceutical advice from Yakov Smirnoff, I assumed that in Soviet Russia the drug warning labels read you!... or something to that effect. The Rusky meds didn’t do anything for me either, but they didn't make me sicker.
To combat getting fooled thrice times over, I mustered the energy to go to the farmacia myself, there were two old Spanish men working behind the counter, and if there’s any demographic of people I trust, it’s grey-haired Spanish men that appear to be over 55, them and any Native American who still lives in a tepee.
These wise men gave me some Fortasec, for the low cost €2.70, which allowed me to start eating – and properly digesting – real food again. Now I feel like a million euros (that’s a 1.2818 million dollars to all my American friends). Thanks Fortasec!
Until I find a job, I'm going to make relentless plug pharmaceutical drugs until one of them throws me some money.