There’ve been migraines, sure. Bouts of insomnia. Flu scares crippling the white blood cells. But calling in was never an option because I’m hoarding all my sick days for you, girl.

Did I already blow all my vacation days on other women? Yeah, and I got no shame admitting it. Vacation days are only temporary, baby. It’s sick leave that carries over from one year to the next, like my love for you.

What are we going to do with all this accrued sick time? You tell me.

The world is literally your sex oyster. We can camp out under the stars, sail down the coast, or fly to Spain. Now I know what you’re thinking: Spain’s a massive ball of flame 93 million miles away! But dig this—we’ll go at night.

Goddamn it is hot. You hot, girl? Think I need to take off my jacket, or put on more jackets since it is freezing in here.

And there’s nothing more erotic than a repurposed sick day. It’s like Ferris Bueller-ing all over your privates. Spend the whole day in bed waiting for that decapitated gondolier to leave the room? You know it. Crash a five-star restaurant? No problem. Hijack a parade? Why not.

Is it cool if I lie down? Just need to chill for a spell. Why don’t you join me, girl?

Bottom line, sick days were invented for lovers by lovers, full-time Casanovas who demanded three to five sessions of tenderness per year. And when you’re a virile stallion of a man who never takes ill? Then you bank all that romance for one blowout sex getaway.

Of course my co-workers will try to stop us. Claim I’m compromising the quality of life in the office. Debilitating immune systems. Exhibiting all the symptoms of early onset dropsy.

And maybe to the naked eye it looks like I got Stage 3 Jeff Goldblum in The Fly. But let me assure you, girl, I’m in the best shape of my life. I’d have no problem working today if this is a weekday morning, or actual real life. Zero difficulty doing the daily grind if it means spending that mountain of sick time in your arms.

Because without you, all I have is this migrating burning sensation and images of a weeping shaman every time I close my eyes.

Oh, thank God, you’re still here.

Okay, let’s play devil’s advocate and say there is something horrible gestating inside me. Maybe it’s a strain of Polynesian influenza I contracted while on safari with those aforementioned vacation-day floozies. Or maybe it’s just gas.

There’s no way to know for sure because you and I aren’t medical professionals, baby. We’re simply two Victorian fops taking the Bay Area ska scene by storm—and I did not mean to throw up on you just then.

Alright, fine!

I need a doctor… to meet me at my cubicle. Because I am NOT wasting one of my eight sick days.