7:06 a.m. I wake up. Not because the sun is shining in through my window, not because the dog wants to go out, but because I have the most horrifying cramps I've had in ages (I strongly suspect that dropping a certain medication from my routine is to blame). I stumble to the bathroom to get my prescription painkillers and a heating pad. I set the alarm so I can call in to the office, as I'm currently unable to stand upright and have to hobble around like Quasimodo.
8:15 a.m. The alarm goes off, and, in a slight drug stupor, I call into the office and try to explain what's wrong with me. I was half asleep and drug-addled, so I'm not sure how successful I was.
1:20 p.m. The drugs wear off. I wake up, realizing I've been out-cold for almost five hours. I stumble out of bead and put the dog on her leash. I don't change out of my tank top and shorts, because who am I going to see? Answer? The only cute guy I've ever living in my apartment complex. Who is treated to a view of my dog turning and squatting.
2:00 p.m. Puppy throws up on the carpet.
2:20 I'm making lunch and cuddling with heating pad. Puppy scratches to go out on the balcony, a favorite pasttime of hers, wherein she goes outside and promptly wants back in. I'm getting up off the couch to open the door when I hear the wettest, most horrifying fart and look up to see Precious getting violent diarrhea all over my white carpet. And then on the balcony while I'm cleaning the carpet.
4:30 p.m. I'm at work and my painkillers wear off.
6:00 p.m. Puppy is violently ill on the balcony again.
7:15 p.m. Making "bland diet" food to cure puppy's intestinal troubles. She poops on the carpet again.
I have spent more time on my hands and knees in my rubber kitchen gloves than out. The boiled rice and hamburger seem to have helped. Puppy is sleeping and I am reunited with my heating pad.
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