Last night I decided to put thrift before caution and finish off that alfredo sauce that I probably should have thrown away four or five days ago.

Oh lordy, such a huge mistake.

Fear not, I have no intention of angling for a cheap laugh by going into excruciating detail describing what turned out to be the worst abdominal nightmare of my 34 years on this earth. But I can’t help but wonder what it is about extreme gastric distress, the sort that causes you to scream at the top of your lungs (thankfully, no neighbors called the police), sweat to a degree that you feel like you’re standing in the middle of a typhoon, and prey for your own death while sitting on the can, that compels you - forces you, even - to strip off all of your clothes? Is it because you subconsiously think you are about to meet your maker and feel like you should go out the same way you came into this world?

Or is that just me and 3 year olds?