Gastro is like the worst relationship you have ever had. One that you should never have gotten into in the first place, but did so against your better judgement (and the pleading of your friends and family).
It starts out fairly innocently. You get this niggling feeling in your belly that something isn’t right. You blame your lunch because that chicken looked a little undercooked. But you are made of tough stuff, have a stomach made out of cast iron, you’ll be fine. It’s like the moment you realised that guy was a lot uglier than he seemed after 3 bottles of champagne. And he had a shirt made of hair. And a long pinky fingernail. But you kept dating him. Because looks aren’t everything.
The feeling of dread starts to take hold. That slightly wet feeling in your mouth right before you are about to spew is unmistakable. Like the kiss he gave you which engulfed your entire mouth like a Koi fish starving for air. You wipe away at the wetness waiting for the inevitable. You are going to spew, and you may or may not make it to an appropriate vessel.
It’s clear you are going down. You have to end this. “It’s not me, it’s you. No, no, no. It’s not you, it’s me.” You rehearse the pathetic lines over and over like you are still in control. Then, out of nowhere, it comes. Like a tsunami on steroids. You try and clench your cheeks so you can make it to the toilet and your hands start shaking as you twerk over the bowl and wriggle down your undies before it all starts. You really should have sent a text but you chose to have dinner and break it gently. And now that tiny fart you thought was so safe has brought you to your knees. The poo starts to literally flow out of you like oil, with each burst of putrid, brown lava, more forceful than the last. Until you are swaying on the toilet like a drunk and tears prick at your eyes.
The verbal diarhoea at the relationship’s end is as endless as the actual diarhoea from your arse. “I’m sorry but it’s the hair shirt and the long pinky fingernail and your surname that sounds a bit like genitalia which reminds me of that Seinfeld episode where he dates the woman with a name that sounds like a body part but he can’t remember her name and he thinks it was Mulva but that wasn’t it and I thought you smelled a lot better when we first met but it could have been the incense in the bar and not actually you and now I can only smell stale almonds which reminds me of that scene in Austin Powers where the guy falls down the cliff and his wound smells a little like almonds and I’m actually allergic to hair. And cats. And cats with hair. And I know Dr Evil had a cat with no hair but I wouldn’t expect you to get a cat without hair since we barely know each other. I’m sorry. It’s not you it’s me.”
It’s not over. He asks for another chance. “We barely know each other. I just like almonds. I’m lactose intolerant, it might be the almond milk?”
Are you fucking KIDDING me? Run Forrest Run! But he pleads with hopeful eyes.
“Just move on. Its for the best.” I spit between gasps. The words have barely left my mouth before it’s time to run away.
Then I have to pick. It’s now a double whammy of Poo and Spew, Bowl or floor. Which end do I point where? Somebody please save me from this indignity. Or at least save me from the burning that feels as if I’ve painted my arse hole with tabasco sauce and then lit it. Not since a crowning Womb Raider have I experienced a ring sting so evil.
This goes on all day and all night. I wonder how much more I can take. And how corn got in there. Like, seriously. How the fuck did corn get in there? I’ve no time to worry about that between shaking from loss of electrolytes and curling up in the foetal position. It’s an emotional rollercoaster and it hasn’t left me the same confident, bright, happy person I was before. I’ve become withdrawn. Too scared to go out in case the tsunami turd blasts came back when I am queuing at the post office. In case I shart myself on the daycare run, or chunder on the floor of my car. The guy at the bottle shop asks me how that hot date went and I can’t even look them in the eye.
Fuck You Gastro. Fuck your tidal waves of turd that are unrepentant and threaten to psychologically disable me as a human. Fuck your stinky piles of spew and your leaping bacteria that infected the entire house within days. Fuck the fact that I not only had to clean up after my own kids, but clean up my own messes – something one should never have to experience in their lifetime. Fuck the fact that every time I smell Glen 20 I want to hurl. Fuck that everyone treated me like a leper for a week because gastro is more feared than the clap.
FUCK YOU. Fuck you all the way to the treatment plant that is now processing my entire body after it melted from the inside and forced itself out of my anus and my mouth simultaneously. I mean really. I’m a shadow of my former self. YOU SUCK.