My Spirit, Beaten and Bruised, Has Not Been Broken. My Maiden, Yes, But Not My Spirit.
Day 6.
I dunno kids. This ain’t right.
Understandably I struggled over the weekend to eat anymore than a cup of broth and a few spoonfuls of rice. Saturday. Sunday. Monday. I’ve lost 12 pounds of man.
Tuesday. Found the strength to eat. Craving Mexican. So I did what any stomach-flu laden white kid would do. Went to Taco Bell. However, had to fly to the west coast and a skiddish bitch on the plane I was.
Upper abdomen got rock hard and the cramps became blinding.
Hatch has been secured and all cell phones and electronic devices are now turned off.
Doesn’t 7-Up sooth the tummy?
“7-Up, please.”
Between the antithesis of Jesus that is my intestines, my Mexican cuisine, the carbonation of the 7-Up, fever, cold sweats, and all that is wrong about being on an airplane in this state, something had to give.
Which led to the discovery of a new talent.
If it smells like a Howitzer and sounds like a Howitzer, it’s a Howitzer.
I fart like a Howitzer.
That ain’t the talent tho. The talent is firing off rounds on a crowded 757 without getting warned, arrested or having my frequent flier miles deducted.
While a doctor would seem the logical choice, I do not need a doctor. I need a priest.
I’m miserable, yo’. And it ain’t getting better.
I dunno kids. This ain’t right.
Understandably I struggled over the weekend to eat anymore than a cup of broth and a few spoonfuls of rice. Saturday. Sunday. Monday. I’ve lost 12 pounds of man.
Tuesday. Found the strength to eat. Craving Mexican. So I did what any stomach-flu laden white kid would do. Went to Taco Bell. However, had to fly to the west coast and a skiddish bitch on the plane I was.
Upper abdomen got rock hard and the cramps became blinding.
Hatch has been secured and all cell phones and electronic devices are now turned off.
Doesn’t 7-Up sooth the tummy?
“7-Up, please.”
Between the antithesis of Jesus that is my intestines, my Mexican cuisine, the carbonation of the 7-Up, fever, cold sweats, and all that is wrong about being on an airplane in this state, something had to give.
Which led to the discovery of a new talent.
If it smells like a Howitzer and sounds like a Howitzer, it’s a Howitzer.
I fart like a Howitzer.
That ain’t the talent tho. The talent is firing off rounds on a crowded 757 without getting warned, arrested or having my frequent flier miles deducted.
While a doctor would seem the logical choice, I do not need a doctor. I need a priest.
I’m miserable, yo’. And it ain’t getting better.
