Finally feel like I'm getting over a recent bout of intestinal malaria (aka stomach flu). I figure I can call this most recent annoying ailment whatever I want, since the popular name for it is a misnomer to begin with. According to WebMD, stomach flu isn't really flu at all, but rather the vernacular for an illness that can be caused by about 1/2 a dozen less glamorous viruses.

I would feel sorry for these poor second rate microorganisms and their life relegated to the shadows of the rock star viruses like influenza or rhinovirus that have dozens of medications designed specifically for them, but considering these second-stringers have rendered me completely pathetic for my entire weekend and cost me yet another sick day, I am really not in a generous mood. All sympathy for the little guys went out the window when I found myself falling asleep on my bathroom floor at 1 a.m. after hurling up imaginary contents of my empty and spastic stomach.

48 hours without solid food could make anyone cranky, but 60 hours kind of pushes you over the edge into this strange delusional state where you start seeing Burger Street chicken sandwiches in the patterns in your ceiling plaster and you dream of Original Pancake House's thick cut bacon during the 20 minutes naps you get between stomach spasms. Oh, and pizza. God, I would kill for a pizza right now, if I didn't think having one tonight would kill me first.

This is why I will never be anorexic: I do not function well when deprived of food, particularly food prepared by others and delivered to my door. I have a take out drawer rivaled only by the Gilmore girls. Seriously, the delivery guys in my neighborhood know me by name.

One guy from my old neighborhood, Guido (no joke, that was his name) worked for the pizza place and the Chinese place that were right next door to one another. He was at my door at least twice a week for 4 years. He once told me I was the nicest customer he had; I told him I figured I owed him a smile since he was feeding me all the time.

Another waiter, Michael, from the little Italian restaurant down the street knew what I liked, and never failed to know when the evening special would knock my socks off. He knew how I liked my salad, how I liked my drinks, and would frequently help me concoct stuff off the menu to fit my mood.

My favorite example, by far though, was the time I called Carmine's Pizza at 3:00 in the afternoon on a Wednesday when I was getting over a case of the flu (the real flu, not the impostor I've been hosting this weekend). I had felt completely horrible for 4 days, and had finally developed an appetite again, even though I still felt like a slug someone had run over with a Mac truck. I called to have my usual delivered, and the guy told me that their lunchtime delivery guy was gone and they couldn't deliver again until after 5. Completely deflated, I said I'd call back later. 2 minutes after hanging up the phone, Carmine himself called me back to say that he would be happy to walk the pizza the 5 blocks to my apartment and he would have it there in 15 minutes. Service like that earns my unwavering loyalty, that and the extra cheese and Italian sausage that has my mouth watering right now just thinking about it. I'm gonna have to take a field trip back to the old 'hood this week a pick up a pie from Carmine.

O.K., all this talk about food is making me more hungry. I think it's time to try something solid. Lord knows I can't feel much worse than I have already. We'll see...