A couple nights ago I stopped at McDonald’s on my way home because I had a coupon, 1 large fry for $1, but while waiting in line and smelling the food I realized I was actually hungrier than I’d thought, and decided to add a McDouble to the order, which seemed adequate for a couple minutes until, as customer after customer seemed not to know there was a menu directly in front of them this whole time, my stomach started to grumble and twist and tell me that a double cheeseburger and large order of fries wasn’t enough.
So I added a cheeseburger to the plan.
Good plan.
Got to the counter, placed my order, collected my food like a racoon in a spotlight and ate the whole thing while walking the half-mile back to my apartment.
It was good, it was filling.
It was enough food.
When I got to my apartment, belly entering the room a good pace-and-a-half before me, I noticed there was some leftover garlic bread from the day before. And a billiard-sized meatball. They were cold but attractive so I took off my belt and ate them.
At the halfway point it became actually uncomfortable but, channeling Trick E. Dick (“I was raised to be a Quaker, not a Quitter”), I endured.
I ate the whole thing.
So were lain, reader, the seeds of an enduring gastric calamity that’s kept me planted for the better part of two days. A nightmare. Waking up at 3 a.m. that first night and hustling to the bathroom to puke–but then not puking.
A malfunction.
The pain was so bad, though, that I tried, with a couple reluctant fingers, to bring forth the tide, like some kinda crackhead Moses, forgetting that I have a gag reflex like the metal buzzer in Operation!, the board game with a big red-nosed white guy lain supine and naked and aghast, not unlike myself, needing things removed from his body that really shouldn’t be there in the first place (again: moi).
Another issue: When I gag, I scream. It sucks but I can’t help it.
I also have a roommate.
So, this being 3 a.m., it really just took that one failed bulimic venture to realize I’d have to find some other avenue.
Alka-Seltzer.
It helped.
I fell asleep. Overslept. Woke up retching and writhing. Wishing for some kind of poop surrogate to come and avail me: “Savior,” I’d tell her, “name your price.”
The day trickled on. I did my tutoring shift at my desk, head hung low and belly purring, and then, rather than heading off to happy hour, I stayed put for three hours and edited the last half of a podcast episode I’d recorded back in March and then neglected while rushing to finish the latest eBook.
So, a silver lining: the McDonald’s & Leftovers Nightmare prompted a new episode of the podcast, which you can find here.
Thousand Movie Project 