My Sister Messaged Me That She is Going to Jail For Running Over My Ex-Brother-In-Law With Her Car

My Sister Messaged Me That She is Going to Jail For Running Over My Ex-Brother-In-Law With Her Car

10:24 P.M. TUESDAY

My sister, Audrey, sends me the following private Facebook message:

"Going to jail. Hit (my ex) with the car. Fight for (my son) with all you have."

I reach across the mountain of soiled Kleenex to the bucket sitting beside my bed, and I vomit into it. As I do, my left ass cheek starts bleeding.

That's just been the kind of day I've been having.

12 HOURS EARLIER

So, it's morning, and I'm sick. Congested, snotty, sneezy, wheezy sick.

My asshat husband, Chris, tells me I need to "buck up." After all, he's had a "man cold" for the past couple of days, and he isn't whining NEARLY as much as I am.

I emphasize that I am SICK, that I have MORE than a cold, and that this is NOT allergies.

He brands me, in no unclear terms, a dramatic faker. I go to take a hot shower to clear my sinuses, and in rapid succession, two things happen: a) I do this weird quasi faint thing that leaves me on the shower floor, and then, b) while semi-conscious, I copiously upchuck all over my naked self.

So, this is no good.

I'm resting in squishy remnants of the buffalo wings I had the night before, and I'm too hoarse to holler for help. I bang on the shower door, hoping Chris will hear me. I can't really move, so I huddle in the fetal position in the farthest corner of our (thankfully) massive tub. I spew again, and my boobs are covered with chicken bits. My cleavage has never looked worse, and that's even counting that time Chris and I experimented with chocolate sauce and it looked like a squirmy raccoon had taken Pollock-esque shits all over my nipples.

Eventually, Chris hears my pleas, and he helps me stand up and rinse off, and being the gracious wife I am, I screech, "NOW DO YOU FUCKING THINK I'M SICK, YOU GODDAMN SADIST?!?" Chris realizes that any further argument that I'm NOT sick is sheer stupidity, and he finally concedes defeat and sends me to Urgent Care.

2 HOURS LATER

This odd old man nurse in Grey's Anatomy brand scrubs is distracting me with the world's most bizarre story as he draws my blood.

Nurse: "Well, y'all know that Jack the Ripper was a creepy dude, huh?"

Me: "Um..., yeah..."

Nurse: "Did you know he was the first person to see an egg come out of a chicken's butt and be like, 'I gotta eat me some of that?'"

Me: "Jack the Ripper was the first person to eat an egg?"

Nurse: "Yes, m'amm, and that's for sure, doll. Wasn't he the weirdest man alive? Seeing that weird thing come out of a chicken's butt and wanting to put it in his mouth?"

Me: "Are you fucking high?"

1 HOUR AFTER THAT

The doctor comes in and gives me the verdict.

Some mutant bacteria superbug has wormed its way inside me, and to live, I must suffer 3 shots in my ass, 6 prescriptions after that, and 4 days of bed rest. I'm not allowed to leave my bed to be sick. I have to have a bucket handy. Yes, I can use the toilet for its intended purpose, but that's the only time I can get up. Well, that, and baths. Supervised, obviously, so I don't faint and drown. And NO showers.

He leaves the room, and I promptly vomit into the room's only trash can.

Then that kooky nurse is back, and he says, "I've got those shots, and they come with nice big needles."

I'm not amused, and I say, "I don't want shots with big needles."

He gets super exasperated and is all like, "Honey child, your husband must be John the Baptist or John Paul the Pope, because he's gotta be a saint to deal with your sass."

So, I bend over, show him my ass, and he pokes me like a goddamn pincushion.

I puke in the trashcan again.

30 MINUTES AFTER THAT

I'm home. In bed. Bucket at my side. Cats conveniently nowhere to be seen when their mommy needs their cuddles. Because cats are bitches.

My husband is hovering, and he looks justifiably scared of me, because I'm nowhere close to forgetting that he called me a hypochondriac.

As he's tucking me in, my phone rings. It's my grandmother. The widowed one who lives alone and is severely accident prone and is a bit batty. I never know when I'll get the call that she's set her house ablaze because she thought an indoor bonfire sounded cozy.

Anyway, she's not on fire. Well, I mean, she is on fire, but it's more that she's on fire about something. And that something is that she's found the cure for the droughts in California.

Composting toilets, she says.

If everybody in California would just use composting toilets, they'd save so much water from the dry flushes. Mind you, my grandmother lives in the Midwest and has never even visited the great Western state, but she's decided that she's going to do her part for The Golden State by ordering a composting toilet. She's going to put it on her screened-in deck, and that's going to be where she shits now.

On her deck.

Where her neighbors could quite plausibly, with little effort, watch her take a poo.

But it gets better.

Because composting toilets produce, you know, compost, she's going to start squirreling away her stool to use in her garden.

I reach for my bucket, because I figure now's as good as time as any to yak again, but she keeps going.

"I've learned so much about fertilizing with people poop!!! I even ordered 'The Humanure Manual,' and it's going to teach me all about how to harvest my feces! Bekah, would you have ever imagined that at the age of 74, your grandmother would have discovered that she loves the soil so much that she would buy a composting toilet and fertilize her own garden with her own shit?!?"

No, GramGram. I did not.

I finally extricate myself from that exchange, and Chris, who has overheard it all, says, "Remind me to never eat your GramGram's cucumbers ever again."

That's when I do puke.

4-ISH HOURS AFTER THAT, AT EXACTLY 10:24 P.M., WHERE THIS WHOLE STORY STARTED:

I've read. I've napped. I've vomited some more. I've put ice on my ass because it hurts like a mo-fo from all those shots. I've watched the premiere of The Voice, and I've drank more sugar-free Gatorade than a diabetic linebacker.

Chris is in bed with me, because he's still in the proverbial doghouse, and I don't care if I'm mega-infectious, because he deserves to suffer as I've suffered, so he can KNOW just how ACTUALLY sick I am.

And then I get the following private Facebook message from Audrey: "Going to jail. Hit (my ex) with the car. Fight for (my son) with all you have."

I read it to Chris, and we sit silently for a few seconds, letting all that marinade in our minds.

"Welp," Chris says, "she's finally killed him."

We sit for a few more seconds, and he has another thought: "She's not expecting us to put up bail is she?"

I think about how much that would cost, and I reach for my bucket to puke again, but as I do, the bandage on the injection site on my butt pops off, and my ass cheek starts bleeding onto the sheets.

RIGHT NOW

I just threw up again.

And in case you're wondering, Gatorade doesn't taste swell coming back up the pipe. But then again, it's sugar-free Gatorade, so it wasn't all that great going down, either.

But I have a point, and it's this: I'm still sick, we're almost 1,500 words into this post, and I haven't even gotten to the part where Audrey reveals what the fuck happened that night.

I could power through, taking barf breaks, and taxing the shit out of your poor eyes as you continue to scroll through endless blocks of text, but I've decided to do us all a favor. I've decided to end the post this way:

To be continued...

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True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. How was YOUR day, darlings? Feel free to disclose details. You're safe here.