Oh. Mah. Guh

"It burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire." - June Carter Cash

"Oh my. Shouldn't have had that burger and fries." - Zesty

Yesterday morning, I felt normal for the first time in about a week. I got up early, got laundry done and had cleared out the weeds in the front yard by 1 p.m. My seasonal funk appeared to be over.

But, I didn't sleep so well last night and had an "unfortunate lunch" today. Thus I'm a little done in. Thank God the season finale of Treasure Hunters is on this evening. Truly, it's all I have left. [Go Southies!]

I went out with Bronte and Stevie to a local hang out called Liberty Cafe. Their burgers are absolutely awesome. I'm still not back on the wagon hypoallergenically speaking, but I'm avoiding the major culprits for the time being, and thought a nice lunch with friends would be just the ticket.

And it was. To Gastro Hell.

Lunch was lovely, but as we headed home things took a turn for the worse.

Now it behooves me to point out that as my regular readership well knows, we spare no detail here at Friends, Romans Dear Reader. Thus I would encourage those of you who are of a more delicate nature to go get a cup of tea and contemplate the arrival of autumn. For the rest of you whose constitutions are made of sterner stuff, pray proceed.

First, the bloating. Seriously y'all. How the hell my pant button didn't snap off and I didn't propel myself into the atmosphere on a seemingly never ending supply of methane is beyond me. Instead, I just.got.larger. But if had blown, nay, A-Bombed, I'm more than certain I would have hit 20,000 feet.

Instead, I managed to walk back, chatting away with Bronte and Stevie like I didn't feel like an alien feotus was about to rip out of my torso. I got to my desk and focused on deep breathing. Somehow I thought this would help. Instead, the cramps kicked in big time and I started to sweat. Not a candy ass, "oh this patio is so humid" sweat. I'm talking "Indiana Jones fleeing the poison dart toting natives" sweat.

Unbelievable. It was "lashin' aff me" as my Granny would say.

Then the gurgling. You know it's somewhat disconcerting when you're sitting at your desk, writhing in pain and you think "Whoa. Never heard that before."

After about half an hour [oh yeah. Writhing and lashin' for HALF.AN.HOUR Y'ALL] things hit the tipping point. I felt the cramping receed and a pressure build lower down, a pressure only relieved by auditory means, if you get my drift. Instead, horror of horrors I realized very quickly that the situation was far more dire than even I had thought and that no sound would be presenting itself, although something else would if I kept going.

There was nothing for it but to head downstairs to our bathroom, cause hell no, there was no way I was going the bathrooms that are also in our office kitchen [long story].

You can well imagine what then transpired. And the funny thing, is what pops into your mind during times such as these. It's like, "I feel bad. Let me think of other bad things." I was writhing in cramps, and I was thinking about what a bad day Bronte was having and how I didn't think that was right. Then I thought about how I wished I had my mortgage money now. Then I thought about the birds chirping when I woke up this morning because I realized that thinking negatively was probably not helping me.

Then you move to the "out of body" phase. As my gastrointestinal flare up rode its course, all I could think about was "how would I describe this in a book?"

The bathroom was empty save one stall, a scent faintly reminiscent of turpentine hanging in the air. "Damn you Gwendolyn! Damn you and your cheese balls to hell!" a voice cried out from the western stall.

I eventually made the long trek back upstairs to my desk. Passing by Bronte and Stevie I said "Liberty burger and fries. Never again."

"Oh. No." said Bronte.

With friends, some things are just immediately understood.