Not to be dramatic or anything, but I almost died last week. Like, I couldn’t walk or talk or even move beyond (barely) breathing. I did cry a lot though. And my insides melted into the mattress as my body tried to incinerate itself with a very high fever. I picked up this nasty bug—named the Erma Flu—at a writer’s conference the week before. And it KICKED. MY. ASS.

As I was fighting for my life, I became addicted to Sons of Anarchy. In case you’re unfamiliar with the television show, it’s about an outlaw motorcycle gang called Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original. Or SAMCRO, for us insiders. They drink a lot of booze, commit heinous crimes, and have a bunch of tattoos. And Peggy Bundy kicks serious ass in it.

In my feverish state, I became a member of the SAMCRO gang. I rode out the chills as they rode their bikes down the streets of Charming. When they littered the backroads with bodies, I littered my room with tissues. While they took shots of whiskey, I threw back some electrolytes. I was a part of The Club.

In addition to raising hell in my bedroom, I sang Hot Blooded (my temperature really was a hundred and three) very loudly and sent several hot and sexy texts to Mr. Foxy.

Sadly he largely ignored me. Usually, he will exchange witty, texty banter. But for some reason, Sick Foxy is not someone he likes to chat with. Well…that and Pooping Foxy.

See, try as I might, I cannot get him to engage in conversations about poop. For some reason, he is opposed to discussing it. Considers that a “personal” matter. “TMI.” And he thinks I’m “crazy” and “a little gross.”

Fortunately, I’ve got friends who understand me and appreciate these kinds of texts. Together, the three of us make up The Poop Club. It’s totally like SAMCRO except without firearms or motorcycles.

As luck would have it, I beat the flu in time for our annual meeting this past weekend. I even brought matching pillows for everyone.

It was a wild club gathering. We tore up the streets in our Uber. We guzzled beer in three different bars. While we didn’t kill anyone or piss off the ATF, we did get pissy-eyed drunk as we bid farewell to one of our members who is moving to Washington D.C. We even paid a visit to a tattoo parlor. One member suggested that we tattoo our Poopy mascot on our backs, just like SAMCRO. Fortunately, we weren’t drunk enough to actually try, but I did get a little color.

And here’s the finished product.

See? I’m totally ready to join SAMCRO. I just need a teeny tiny motorcycle to match my tat.

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