I'm beginning to wonder whether my stomach has any other purpose but to shit me and / or give me the shits. In all senses of the word.
I began to notice long ago that the moment I have some sort of social event on, my stomach clams up and decides to launch itself at me with horrifying results (horrifying for the toilet bowl in question). It's almost as if it's an instantaneous reaction by my stomach as a means of protecting me from whatever the hell it needs protecting from. Or whatever the hell I need protecting from. Either / or, as is the case in this… err… case.
Case in point, I was originally thinking of going out this evening.
It was to be Edward's last pub crawl (and by last, I technically mean first as I'd never heard of him do a planned drinking night before this) before he leaves to work for Microsoft in America. I wasn't sure if I was to go – you know… me being socially inept and bored in crowds of people relatively quickly – but the thought more or less lingered in my mind with the prospect of my brother, Boris, Ross, Edward, Leora, and other random girls there.
I like random girls.
Anyway, as I decide to take a shower before I leave, The Stomach of Doom strikes rendering my gut unconscious and forcing me to take refuge at the nearest Porcelain Palace of Protection (this is my neat-o way of saying "toilet" in this blog post). I was at that Palace for god knows how long and while I did manage to get a fair amount of reading done, I felt uneasy the entire way through.
Sort of like how Indiana Jones would feel if he were told that his toilet was infested with snakes. SNAKES.
When I did decide to come out and cleanse myself of the stink that The Stomach of Doom presented me with (Christ, this movie would suck), I showered and then dried off trying to stave off The Stomach and see how long it would take before I felt… decent.
It's now 10.10 PM. The event started at 7.30PM. By the time I'd get out there, it'd be damn near 12.
I don't think I'll be going.
I just had a yoghurt and that seemed to trouble The Stomach of Doom enough to reverberate all my back muscles and cause End Credits music to shake in its grave. Or something like that.
Thank you stomach. Thank you for thoroughly pissing me off.