An Open Letter to The Sweet BuBaby Bejezus (because he's my favorite Jesus)

Dear Sweet BuBaby Bejezus (because you're my favorite Jesus!),

What, may I ask, exactly did I do to deserve this disease? I have been told how horrible I look more times than than I care to say this week. I have been forcibly dismissed from work this week all the days I have come in. I have gotten worse, not better, and did not make my goal of staying a full day. I was in fact told to go home about 5 minutes after I dragged my sick ass there in the freak snow storm we have had today because I apparently "not to make me feel bad but look like hell." I woke up about the time I would normally get off work.

So, Sweet BuBaby Bejezus (my fave!), what did I do exactly? Is it because I enjoy the occasional box of wine? Or that some dude at work is pissed off that the bracket my cat Taco Del Gato filled out for the March Madness is doing better than he is? I am pretty sure I haven't committed any true crimes against humanity like Paris Hilton does just be being her. So what is it? I implore you Sweet BuBaby Bejezus--What did I do?

PS BuBaby BeJezus. Thank you at least for taking away my ability to eat food whilst I can't work out. My jeans are much looser and that makes The Wonk happy (as long as its not Ebola that I have and my insides are melting and that's why my jeans are loose).