Morning arises. The sun breaks. Alarms warm me to a new morning. My stomache instead feels like I'm pregnant with rocks. This is the smallest of my pains. I am actually aware of my intestines. Normally my path of digestion remains covert to my conscious brain, but I feel like someone stuffed a 50in garden hose into my abdomen, turned on the hose and capped the other end. Its not pleasant.
Ah constipation.
Was it the cream pasta? Was it the sausage rigatoni? Was it the baker dozen of garlic bread? Perhaps my dietary sin lies somewhere among my many indulges of chips and salsa, ranch ruffle chips, and of course, Snapple. No matter the riches, no matter the stature, all men are brought low by the two terrors, diahrrea and constipation. Nice to know that all men will never get alway from the basics.
How do I free my self of my self-impass? Squatting over the pot with a bottle of water and a lot of time.
Ahhhhhhh mondays...
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