Fire Belly

If I could take a scaple and cut out my own stomach and replace it with a cow’s stomach, I would. First, cow’s have three stomachs. So I’m sure it wouldn’t miss one of them. Second, I’m sure it’d work a hell of a lot better than mine, which feels like I just chased a shot glass of nails with a pitcher of hot, molten lava.

Whereas many babies have their father’s eyes or their mother’s nose or their grandparents’ bald, toothless heads, I have my mother’s stomach. It is finickier than a paranoid neurotic at a Chipotle. That comparison might not have made sense to many of you. But speaking on behalf of paranoid neurtics everywhere, I can assure you the ability to customize my burrito in one of a hundred different ways, although tantalizing to the tastebuds, really can send me into a tailspin. Hot chili sauce with cheese? Extra lettuce? Oh my God! Just tell me what to eat before I starve!

But yes, my stomach one minute is perfectly normal, digesting food effortlessly without my concious thought. But at any moment it can turn into a grumbling, grumpy beast, like a werewolf at a fancy dinner party that pops out of its tuxedo and flashes its were-junk for all the snobby party guest to see. (“Poor taste, Mr. Wolf,” says the elderly aristocrat.) No specific food triggers this. Yeah, coffee isn’t so great. But neither is a bowl of cherries, which from what I hear is a good thing for your life to be like…just not so hot on the indoor plumbing, which in this context are my guts.

I probably spend as much time in the bathroom as most people do sitting in traffic. And if I had to sit in traffic, I’d probably spend a lot of that time going to the bathroom. Cars across the country breath a sigh of relief that I don’t drive, especially those with leather interior. This isn’t all bad. It gives me a lot of time to think of things, like why is my stomach like having a bear trap implanted into my torso and what did my parents do to God to make him such a jerk to me?

I should probably refill my stomach medication, which has always helped temper the acid, fiery hot poker pains I feel on a minute to minute basis. But those pills aren’t cheap (thanks health insurance). So I’d rather go on suffering and relying on the power of prayer. Which isn’t a good idea because I forget to pray constantly. Maybe I should buy some post-it notes and post them around my apartment remdinding me to pray. But then I’d probably forget that I wrote those notes and think some evangelical stranger was planting cryptic messages around my apartment, which would lead to me buying a firearm to protect myself from these crazy right wing zealots. No thank you.

What was I talking about?

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One response to “Fire Belly

  1. Are you writing this from your bathroom?

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