Irritable bowel syndrome

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Got up.

Gut-wrenching pain.

I changed my bedsheets for the 6th time this week. The only laundromat in town is located on main street, in between the petticoat store and the pastrami emporium of Mr. Schadenfreude.

Me on a hot afternoon.

Two nights ago in that bar, high on Pepto-Bismol, I saw this couple regurgitating their food for each other. It was beautiful, at first. They were expressing their love of course, and I couldn't even take a moment's pause to appreciate that. God-damn. There it was again. And yeah, soon enough I felt, the warm, pasty runoff, delicately seeping through the hairs on my thighs. "Where is the toilet"? "Where is the god-damn toilet," I shouted. The regurgitating girl choked on the food presently in her nose cavity, and gave me wild stares. I limped to the lavatory (or any recipient capable of holding my fury), but somehow fell in one brown fell swoop and hit the floor. On all fours, I crawled, covered in shit-particles, to the nearest toilet.

Well, anyway, I have to go my proctologist now. I have this little condition called irritable bowel syndrome. Like every Monday, we are discussing last week's Bristol Stool Chart. I know it by heart, let me explain: last night for instance I had "separate hard lumps, that were hard to pass". Sometimes I dream about "sausages and snakes, smooth an soft". John, my proctologist, knows that. He knows a lot about me and my excremental life. John wrote a bestseller, "Colonic Man." It is about the hidden life of Cecil Rhodes, who allegedly too had bowel problems of no small magnitude. When he was denied access to Tanzania, out of sheer anger, Cecil took off his pants, and shat the entire first row of the Hall of Representatives in Johannesburg under a dark brown spray.

And, my dear Daisy, I have to tell you this: I enjoyed my date with you last week, and I'd love to see you again. Care to go bowling with me? I'm free on Sunday (that's when I don't go to John ;-). Sunday is happy happy constipation day.