The only thing I can figure is at some point I slipped into a fugue state of sorts. There’s just no explanation for this misery, this insufferable, debilitating discomfort other than a marathon session at the buffet-o-deep-fried-foods.
Chimichangas for seven?
Brawts, horseradish and beer?
Jalapeno poppers and a blooming onion?
Raw onions and tabasco?
I swear I’ve never had any of these things, but the pain that radiates from pelvis to esophagus suggests otherwise. We’re going on day three of me walking around clutching my belly and moaning, that is when I’m not belching, wincing or hiccuping. I suppose the good thing is I am simply to exhausted and consumed by my gastro-intestinal distress to bemoan my size or sallow skin.
Excuse me, it’s too hard to blog while keep a hand on my brow in a gesture of suffering.