It must have been that sweet curd

As I lay confined to my bed, not by quarantine, but due to the impossibility of mobility, I am left alone to ponder what food has taken my gut as its victim. After a day of vomiting fiercely and expelling over half a gallon of partially digested food and liquid that my body decided to reject as contaminated, and a second day of laying in my bed only rising to use the bathroom and taking in a tame diet of crackers and water, I lie paralyzed by weakness on this third day, miserable at my body's incapacity and ashamed from its exhaustion from the wretched bouts of puking. The smell and thought of food nauseate me, while my hunger tortures me as I crave the energy and nutrients that food would provide. A bite of bread is barely satisfying, since its mere smell taunts my gastric relexes to react against it, my stomach threatening to throw another tantrum. Whatever morsels intend to satiate me only aggravate the turmoil of my belly upon swallowing. Once I devour several pieces, I fear the wrath of my body as it seizes the food, questioning it, suspicious that it too is infected with foreign microbes, as the reminder of digestion evokes sickening nausea. As I rise to drink, dizziness forces me to return to my horizontal state, preventing me from even quenching the thirst I suffer from the copious loss of liquid. As I drift in and out of sleep, I have not even enough consciousness to feel the boredom of my inactivity. Staring into space is as much of an expenditure as my body can afford. Thus, I lie helpless, with only enough energy to hope for tomorrow.