Of all the sentences in all the books I've ever read, this is probably my favorite:
"Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner!"
For the last couple of days, my stomach has squeezed and wrenched and grasped and scraped at the mere thought of, not to mention the actual consumption of, food.
My tummy hurts, nothing I eat or drink stays in me very long, and I have a fever. That's basically what I'm saying.