Miserable Mouth Mystery

Case solved!

Since it was possible, but not likely, that I may have gotten herpes or syphilis from kissing a hooker from The Apple Store, I had to go through every blood test and pee-pee test imaginable. After over a week of doctor’s visits, fainting from having blood drawn, and stress, it has been declared that I had an aphthuous ulcer on the roof of my mouth. Basically, a burn blister that became hideously infected and inflamed. That slice of pizza that started all this was totally NOT worth it.

I was prescribed steroid cream a few days ago and it started healing slowly, but efficiently. Yesterday, I was able to eat spicy foods again. Soon, dicks can go back in my mouth too! Yay!

So basically, it felt like I had herpes and was on steroids, but without actually having herpes or steroids.

Wah.

I don’t know if this is a side effect of having had poop in my eye, but somehow my mouth has exploded in painful sores. I know it’s not an STD of any kind because I just had a full physical and everything came back cleaner than Benjamin Bratt (no matter how many times I see that trailer, I refuse to watch that show).

I’ve had a fever for 24 hours and I woke up in a pool of my own sweat. My tongue feels like shark skin and there’s a porcupine in my throat. It’s like the ten Biblical Plagues have taken up residence in my pie-hole. The word “pestilence” comes to mind. Hilary Swank and an army of locusts are stabbing my tender mouth with spears, hoping to weaken me and nail me up on a cross (no matter how many times that movie is on free HBO, I refuse to watch it).

Earlier this evening, I called my mommy so she would give me some comforting advice. She got online to research my sores. She narrowed it down to 117 possible diseases. The internet has done wonders for panic and hysteria. She told me to go to the doctor’s as soon as possible. I was hoping she would have told me to just rinse with warm salt water and everything will be better by morning. Instead, I get to call out sick and go to the doctor’s for the 5th damn time in less than a month.

Oh. Look. A fucking cockroach just crawled out of my sock drawer. Brilliant.

Oh crap.

I accidentally got poop in my eye. It’s hard to wash out that sort of burn.

Avoid putting poop in your eye at all costs.

Just some friendly advice.

Serious Bathroom Problem

I had this terrible issue happen today in the potty. Ever since I started this whacko diet, I will occasionally have a digestive…um, event. I wasn’t going to blog about it, but I gchatted one of my besties about the situation and he told me I should. Well. Here it is. I just cut and pasted the whole…um, scenario.

10:03 AM me: omg
10:04 AM i just had a serious bathroom situation
i had this overwhelming sense of poo, not like regular poo, like, my stomach hurts and it MIGHT be diarrhea poo
10:05 AM so i ran in there, even with like 5 things going on in the lobby
did my poo
THEN
10:06 AM i went to pull my pants up and a wad of wet, poo water toilet paper dropped in my underwears, but i didnt know it so i pulled them up and got wet, poo water on my butt
i have no fucking idea how that happened, poo magic
so i freaked out a little and sat down
then some dude came in
10:07 AM and left so i knew he was waiting for me outside
so i put the wad of paper in the toilet and flushed
but it didnt flush
the chain had broke
no flushing
so i tried to dry my underwear with new toilet paper
10:08 AM and wiggle my underwear back and forth in the air to help it dry
then the dude came back in
and left
i think he heard me air drying my panties
so i tried ot flush again
no flush
THEN I HAD TO POO AGAIN
so i did
as i was drying my panties
10:09 AM finally they werent sopping wet so i am now wearing damp panities
and had to reach by hand in the toilet bucket to fix the chain, so my arm is all toilet watery
and then they were out of MOTHERFUCKING soap
10:10 AM so i had to wash my ARM in the kitchenette where this stupid old lady was making her coffee
the end.
Craig: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
OMG OMG OMG!!!!
LOL!
can I send this to Claire?!
me: yes
Craig: and can you please blog about it?!

Green Chili Dynamite

I have never shat eight times in the span of ten hours until today. Maybe I have a serious problem. I’ve been sweaty, felt like I am seizing, and saw spots. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like food poisoning, it just feels like I have to shit alot.

I went to Los Dos Molinos last night. It’s “authentic New Mexican cuisine”. Or at least that’s what birthday boy, Cody Melton, said a million times about it. I get it, you’re from New Mexico. Let it rest. The place was fabulous. Amazing food, great drinks, delightful desserts. I ate chips, red salsa, green salsa, guacamole, more chips, more red and green salsa, water, a giant lime margarita on the rocks with salt, a huge machaca beef chimichanga drenched in green chilis and copious amounts of melted cheese, rice, beans and more cheese, sour cream, more chips, more red and green salsa, another giant lime margarita on the rocks with salt, a bite of Betsy’s taco salad, a sip of TJ’s prickly pear margarita, more water, the lettuce underneath my sour cream, a deep fried pastry covered in powdered sugar and caramel drizzled over it, some neopolitan ice cream, water, lemon wedge, and more water. Oh my god, kill me now.

I knew there was going to be a problem when I felt my stomach turn when I sat down on the subway. I stood up and instead of calming the problem, I instigated part two of the Mexican-American War. My chimichanga was fighting for control of the Alamo in my lower intestine. I got home and immediately shat. Then again before I went to bed. I woke up twice in the middle of the night to empty my piehole, the second time stepping in cat vomit on the floor. I woke up to get ready for work. I pooped once before my shower and again after my shower. I left the house and halfway down the block to the subway, I turned around, went back home and crapped again. I was sweaty and my skin felt moist – like a dying person, clammy. I got to work and headed straight for the bathroom because, guess what – I had to drop the kids of at the pool again! Can you even believe it? Sooo lame.

But damn, that was a good dinner. Just not sure if it was worth the Green Chili Craptacular. The Food Baby Festival. Poo Party USA. Ass Blast 2007.

Poo Story

AYSO Soccer teams are a necassary rite of passage as a young kid. I hoped and wished back then that performing in the muscical ‘Grease’, making the perfect mixed tape or reading the entire Nancy Drew Mysteries series in one summer had a little more clout than all the sports I was forced to play. I guess my favorite would have to be soccer. Baseball was boring. Football scared me. Basketball seemed redundant. Soccer however, included a refreshing orange slice and Capri Sun buffet at intermission and if I was doing a bad job on the field I was always able to sit on the sideline and be exchanged for a better player.

During one particular game, I had to poop. I was on the backline – uh fullback or something? Placed just above the goal keeper, who if our team was doing their jobs at the other end of the field, I would be able to chat with – and I felt a very weighty poo making its way through my intestines. I tried to ward it off by standing firmly in one place and squeezing my butt cheeks together. However, this only spurred yelling from my father who was consistantly perched on the sidelines giving the entire team pointers and more importantly screeching at me to “get my head in the game, Marx”. I never understood the need for our real coach if my dad was always doing his job for him. To avoid my fathers berating, I walked around a little bit.

A thick turd escaped from my poop shute. It curled into a ball between my butt and my underwear. The crap was so scared and out of its element, it didn’t know what to do so it just tucked itself together comfortably by my ass. I felt that I needed to escape my own soccer crap fest that was not my element either.

I told the real coach that I had to go to the bathroom. Coach Dad told me I was full of excuses. Actually, I was full of shit. Well, not too full anymore. I “hustled” to where the bathrooms should have been at the high school, but they were locked and chained up. Hmm. I looked around. There was a small residential area just beyond the parking lot. I walked across the street to the nicest, pinkest looking house and knocked.

A very sweet old lady who smelled like Estee Lauder (I knew my perfumes better than I knew my teammate’s names) answered the door. I politely explained that I needed to use the restroom and that the school’s facilities were locked up. She let me in and even offered me some punch. I declined and locked myself inside her floral explosion bathroom. I stripped my dirty underwear off and buried it at the bottom of her basket trash can. I then proceeded to put a bunch of toilet paper on top of it. I cleaned myself off and put my soccer shorts back on. I ran faster than I ever have on the field back to the game. I left poopy underwear at an old ladies house! I was shamed, but what was my other option? I didn’t know. I was maybe 10 years old.

Luckily the game was ending and after we all gave each other the obligatory “good game” high fives, I jumped into my dad’s Aerostar minivan and we sped off down the road. I didn’t even care that he was loudly proclaiming how disappointed he was at me for making it up that I had to use the toilet. He launched into a monolougue that had something to do with effort and sportsmanship. I just wanted to get as far away from my poop bomb as possible.

Nancy Drew case #13: Death by Design was my favorite out of the entire series.