When you are sick.

This is what you write.

NO SICK

“Listen, dumb ass! You can't be sick! No one can be sick!” Dung was screaming mad. She was mad as hell, if there was a hell. Who knows anymore.

Tyrone, a tall and gangly man who couldn't be bothered to grow hair on his head, shuffled to his corner, and began to cry blood. Blooood! WHOA!

A PAUSE.

WHAT!? I SAID WHAT!?

“BLOOD!?” said Isidro, “He can't cry blood. Makes no sense. Wipe the snot from your nose and get back to work, Tyrone."

Linda stormed in, fists above her head punching everyone's thoughts to death, and said, “Does anyone have any ham!?”

Tyrone, still shuffling, bent over and picked up a fat slice and tossed it to her.

Dung flew through the air, caught it, and said, “No ham!”

Tyrone shuffled home. And cried into his pillow. But also had a little party. A dance party! YESSSS.