I don’t think I can eat again. Let me rephrase that. With my stomach distended like a child on a Sally Struthers infomercial, I think eating would be more difficult than listening to Dennis Miller’s standup without wikipedia on speed dial. That joke was funny because of the hypocrisy of the phrasing.
Instead I sit in the middle of my mattress with my fan on high blast hoping that the moving of air will allow me to move my bowels as well. I have three glasses of water, two of them empty sitting to my right and I’ve gone piss 40 times so far today. Yet I can’t force out a shit.
Two nights ago I went to deposit my tip and tutoring money into my bank account. I was excited to use Chase’s ATMs that you just shove your wad of cash into and it reads how much you’ve given it and deposits that amount directly. It ate my money. I had an immediate reaction similar to when the same thing happened at the YMCA when you were 10 and your were trying to buy a small bag of fruit snacks and the twirling metal hand of food-giving held onto the ripples in the bag a little too hard. I pouted. Then I realized that I had just deposited around half of what I already had in my bank account, and if that transaction didn’t go through, paying rent was going to prove difficult. The ATM gave me a receipt that had a phone number to call during normal business hours or I could visit a branch to try to resolve this problem, but it was no longer business hours and the next day would be devoid of business hours as everyone who worked at Chase would be shoving fistfulls of mashed potatoes into their mouth while watching Packers destroy Lions – which sounds like we have found a way to find nutrition in the meat of jungle cats.
Now I sit with hot air molecules masquerading as cooler air molecules by moving quickly at my face surrounding me, and I need to go to the bank and fix this grown up vending machine error. But I’m scared. I want to go to the bank so that the voice I talk to has a face that can see the pain on my face as I explain the necessity of the money I lost in staying in my apartment, but what if this poop I’ve been waiting for all day finally decides to mount its escape while I discuss my predicament? I’ll be in that bathroom for hours waiting for the turkey, potatoes, cranberry sauce, stuffing, sweet potato/curry noodle kugel, pecan and apple pie (which one do you think I brought to the table? I’ll give you a hint: There are only 350 Indian Jews in America and I like to be in the minority) to find its way to its new home of the toilet while my stomach retreats back to its normal size. That’ll be embarrassing.