Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Saturday Night I-Wish-I-Were-Dead
Styro is REALLY Gonna Love This Post
Boy, was I wrong.
I’ve been treating this “ulcer”* just like my previous GI problems. I figured if I was wham-bamming my stomach with Prilosec OTC and Zantac 150, I could eat whatever the Christ I wanted.
Yeah, so we went to dinner Saturday night. Sushi. I chose the spicy tuna rolls and the shrimp tempura rolls (with spicy sauce). And dipped everything into the soy/wasabi bath. And chased it all with a generous amount of Sapporo.
Things didn’t really start getting bad until a couple hours after dinner. It started with the familiar cramped feeling. We left our friends’ house and went home so I could take my Zantac (which I hadn’t taken yet). I took it a little after 10 o’clock, and was watching T.V. in the bedroom as I waited for it to kick in. Michelle was trying to go to sleep. After more than an hour, I started lamenting that I didn’t think it was going to work. The pain was still there, and worse. There was no way I was going to sleep, and Michelle was worried about me so she wasn’t sleeping. So, we watched Saturday Night Live.
Holy Sweet Christ! I understand how Ashlee Simpson got to where she is, and that the pre-teen music-buying public will lap up anything that’s TRL’d down their throats. But obviously, none of these kids care about her live performances. She is AWFUL! There are no two-ways about it. She is to “talented” as quadriplegics are to “good at swimming.” Weak voice, no range, lame stage presence. And the song she says she “wrote” after her last appearance was sad . . . and trite and overflowing with pap. Michelle and I were looking at each other and shaking our heads. And now I also understand more about why we have the president we do.
So, roundabout 1 a.m., Michelle’s really wanting to go to sleep. I felt worse laying down than sitting or standing. She suggested that maybe I could try to prop myself up on the chaise couch in the living room and maybe get some sleep. ("You might surprise yourself.") Which I did . . . after (unsuccessfully) trying to make myself vomit. (It turns out that this is possible.) I couldn’t really get comfortable in the living room as I watched the clock go past 2 a.m. towards 3 a.m. Not wanting to disturb Michelle, I got a mixing bowl out of the kitchen and conducted a (successful, this time) vomiting session in the living room. My stomach continued hurting, but I felt less bloated.
I think I dozed off at some point . . . probably a total of two hours. Maybe three. I felt like Hell all day on Sunday. The stomach pain was slowly diminishing, but I was afraid to eat much. Still, I had to keep food in my stomach. By Sunday night, I was a zombie. I could barely stand up to wash dishes, constantly feeling light-headed and queasy. I'm better now. But I'm relegated to eating only non-spicy food and drinking no alcohol. I'm turning into a repressed British person!
So . . . don’t let this happen to you. The End.
* My blood work came back yesterday. I’m negative for the ulcer-causing bacteria, which disturbs me because everything going on is consistent with “ulcer.” I called his morning and now I have an appointment with my doctor. Jesus . . . I hadn’t seen that guy for a couple years and now I’ve seen him several times in the past few months. I’m fucking falling apart!