“Psst.”
…
“Psst.”
…
“HEY STUPID!”
“Wha-huh-what?”
“I’m talking to you.”
“Where are you?”
“In your belly.”
“WHAT?”
“It’s me, the leftover Chinese.”
“Oh, fuck. I knew you were going to come back to haunt me.”
“Yes.”
“WHY?”
“Well, let’s see. You’re not supposed to eat beef. You’re not supposed to eat crunchy pea pods. You’re not supposed to eat water chestnuts. Anything else I am missing?”
“Shit.”
“I foresee much gastrointestinal distress in your future, Jennifer.”
“What are you, the Ghost of Stomach Future?”
“You could say that.”
“I hate you.”
“And I hate you.”

In other news, I can’t stop thinking about sex. It is the 400-pound gorilla in the room. Apparently I need religion, or exorcism, or a good slap in the face, or the opposite of Viagra, or something. Anything. Help.

Here’s a laugh: The seizure medication I am on is often known to suppress a person’s sex drive. I cannot even imagine what I would be like without it. I would be humping kitchen chairs and masturbating seventeen times per day and howling at the moon.

This is terrible. Just terrible.

Happy Wednesday from the hormonal one.

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