My Past 72 Hours

So I tweeted about my glorious day on Friday

Splints out, Panera has lovely new packaging, took a fine nap, might go get a Doritos Locos taco n watch some motherfucking Ghost Adventures

First of all, I will recognize the grievous error in that tweet. Clealy I meant “get Doritos Locos tacos” not “a Doritos Locos taco.” Who goes to Taco Bell and buys one taco.

Somewhere in between planning to get tacos (I actually went and got a smoked turkey, egg & cheese crepe because it was closer, Taco Bell is the only fast food restaurant I DON’T live close to) and watching Ghost Adventures something went terribly awry.

You guys, I was literally struck with a case of constipation so severe I contemplated suicide. It is possible. There was no lead up. My sister literally has a term for the lead up to constipation. Everything isn’t functioning fine and then you’re magically constipated. You hear the train coming miles away. You keep eating a lot of oatmeal and microwavable food and go “I know I should throw something that isn’t a carb in here, but I am too fucking lazy.” And then you pay the price. It’s the circle of life.

But I was literally on the toilet with what Clementine from Rad Girls so beautifully termed “the poo chills” for 3 hours trying to push something out. Intermittently I got down on my knees and either prayed to God or tried to throw up. I mean I literally had a suicidal level of cramping and bloating. I think I actually prayed that “if anything up there cares about my life at all, and wants me to live, please give me a sign” I was going to crawl the six inches to the bathtub and slit my wrists.

Which brings the bigger issue of every time I have been suicidal in my life, or asked for help from some sort of larger entity, I have gotten nothing. I should be a fucking atheist. The only reason I’m not is because I’m a masochist and an idiot.

But back to the poop.

Eventually I gave up trying and crawled on to the couch in the living room to try to find some solace in the chilliness of its leather and watch Zak and Miri Make a Porno on mute. My Mom came out and saw me in tears and was like what the fuck is wrong with you? And I had to tell my Mom about my suicide-level constipation. She gave me some milk of magnesia and tried to give me the most Mom-support you can give someone who is suffering from something that is as empathy-less as doody troubles.

I somehow managed to fall asleep for like two hours and spent the rest of the night violently shitting my brains out in like 10 minute intervals. It’s like my body wouldn’t just let me get it all over with at once. I had to crawl back in bed to my Comedy Central and my club soda and my body pillow, trying to find some comfort in Daniel Tosh’s beautiful face, my guardian angel of poo, knowing I was going to be up again 10 minutes later. Sometimes the gravity of just standing up was enough to knock some more out.

The human body is stupid.

After being awake all night, I got up zombie-eyed at 2PM, afraid to eat anything, had a conversation with my Mom that I can’t remember, but she claims I was acting really weird, and went back to bed.

I then had this horrible fucking dream that Eddie Vedder was dating my Mom, but he wasn’t cool Eddie Vedder, he was a dick. He was a dick who wanted to go to Mongolian Barbeque. And I got mad that Eddie Vedder was dating my Mom and he was a dick and we were in Mongolian Barbeque so I poured a glass of water and ruined my mother’s salad (for real my Mom would go to Mongolian Barbeque and find a way to order salad.) And Eddie Vedder redecorated my room and he did a real shitty job of it. God, fuck you Eddie Vedder.

It’s going to be a long time before I listen to Pearl Jam again.

THEN TODAY, I woke up hysterically crying. For the entire day, I have not been able to get a word out without busting in to tears. I can’t even talk. I can’t even think. Literally crying for like 15 straight hours. My Mom’s trying to show me these turkey croissants she picked up at Costco and I’m just like *sob* those look *sob* nice *sob* I mean I know what I’m sad about, but in 23 years, from grumpy baby, to sullen teen, to Elizabeth Wurtzel-y college student, I have never been less able to hold my shit together. It’s been bizarre. I tried to sleep just to avoid trying to avoid crying and I just had a nightmare someone was preforming a tracheotomy on me. I wasn’t in pain, but I was paralyzed, and due to my unfortunate obsession with medical facts, I know full well how tracheotomies are done. Which cricoids to go after. How many incisions are made. Vertical or horizontal. So it was pretty rough.

I also had a dream me and Avril Lavigne were besties. I think I was like her tour manager or something? We were at some sort of underground mall. I don’t know.

So it’s 8:30 now and the crying has finally ceased due to a combination of Percoset left over from my septum surgery and a McDonald’s Iced Caramel Mocha. Pain killers and creamy sugar. Who knew.

And yes, the irony this whole thing could have been bypassed by going the extra mile to Taco Bell, which certainly would not have left me constipated, is not lost on me.

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