For the past 48 hours my intestines feel kneaded like dough. Pushed and pulled, stretched, twisted, mistreated entirely and I’m getting worn down. I’m not sleeping well and have forgone my nausea meds in favor of ginger in hopes that fewer chemicals are a good thing. I feel poisoned, I can’t think of any better analogy, and, of course, It’s spot on, I am poisoned.
Despite my intestinal discomfort, churning, gurgling, screaming raw, and my lack of taste buds. I spent last night watching Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives on TV with Griffin and I’m lusting after Cuban and Mexican food. Oh, soft, warm, gooey enchilada and pretty much anything they had at the Cuban place in Minnesota. A spicy enchilada would probably kill me, and slowly and painfully at that, but we are not smart, I want, I want.
Instead I ate a donut this morning because when your mom has cancer there are donuts in the house, and Lucky Charms, it was some kind of stupid act of rebellion... donuts do not make you feel better, I know this. The donut wasn’t smart, my body isn't happy with me, and it has done nothing to temper my craving for Piccadillo. Oh and I’ll have a margarita with that please, because a girl can dream.