NaBloPoMo Day Thirty: This Is No Good

I am in touch with my stomach. I am in touch with my stomach. I am in touch with my stomach, which keeps fucking around at exactly this time every night. It feels sort of like there is a bubble in my uterus. I don't know if you know this, but you can't tell someone "I think there is a bubble in my uterus" without them automatically suggesting it's a fetus. It's not a fetus. It would be physically impossible for me to have a fetus in my womb right now. I think it's a bubble.

Maybe my uterus got bored one day and soaped itself up, then blew really hard on the soap. Or maybe some air got in there, which is actually fatal.

I'm repeating the mantra, "I am in touch with my stomach" in hopes of the bubble going away. Popping. Or, if not that, then in hopes of my stomach ceasing its clench-unclench-clench exercise. Hey, stomach. Stop fucking around. This is serious business.

I found out today that too much soy milk after fifteen years of no soy milk CAN KILL. How did I find this out? By accepting a drink from a man who is lactose intolerant, and then downing half of it with a leftover sandwich. I think the soy in the milk super-activated my G.I. tract, because about thirty minutes later, my intestine was like, "Oh hi, you'd better go to the toilet now. Just by the way." Yes, yes I am writing about my soy milk intolerance.

Is it possible to be soy milk intolerant, I wonder. Or was it just the quickness of my drinking it combined with the lifetime of homogenized mam-milk? Or maybe my stomach was fucking around again and telling everything to clear out so it could have a roller skating party. Or maybe there really is a bubble in my uterus that is soaking up all my nutrients and making me so tired and weird lately.

This is true. I have been incredibly weird lately. Weirder than normal. Like going to a Maverik with my friend, Markie, and two Junior year boys, and air-guitaring to Heart. And not caring about it. And being super content with everything. And telling Matt that I want Andy's soft, cushion-y body. And not caring when Matt actually told Andy about that little conversation. (That's not entirely true, I did care, but not about him telling, just about Andy's reaction.) I think it's my stomach fucking around again.

Damn you, stomach! Damn you to Hell!