“Dais, what did you get for Valentine’s Day?”
First things first: I’ve got IBS. IBS is, to put it mildly (and realistically), shit. Irritable Bowel Syndrome involves: an abundance of shit – usually delivered in the most treacherous of forms; a lack of shit – read: a build-up of shit that refuses to leave your being, like a lecherous child; or, if you’re real lucky, a devilishly unpredictable mixture of the two. I suffer from both forms of IBS and believe me when I say: it is a wholly unholy and debilitating affliction.
My life revolves around my bowel movements, or lack of. My stomach can’t handle a great deal of anything so meal times are carefully planned, to the point where nowadays all I consume is chocolate (it’s easier, that way). Alcohol sends my bowels into disarray so school-night drinks are out the question entirely; three meals a day is a total no-no because it’s just too damn much food for my gut to handle; dinner dates are my Everest, because the likelihood is that I’ll have to dart off like a panicked pup and ruin the restaurants bathroom. That last scenario actually happened during a welcome dinner at an internship: two slices of pizza down (really fantastic four-cheese pizza) and I felt the familiar knots in my stomach taking full effect. Seconds later my gut started spasming out of control and I leapt from the table, before unceremoniously annihilating the ablutions. I didn’t even say goodbye or explain my franticness. THERE WASN’T ENOUGH TIME, PEOPLE.
Alternatively, I once didn’t poop for an entire two and a half weeks. I shit you not.
Anyways, last night – as our early Valentines meal – the boyf and I decided to gorge on chicken shish kebabs (I know, I’m easily pleased). The shish and halloumi were, unsurprisingly, sublime. My stomach seemed sublime, too. So sublime, in fact, that I considered putting out; although I was hella bloated, so the certainty of the shag was TBC.
I don’t think I’m alone in this: the more bloated *I* am, the less likely *you* are of getting laid. Unfortunately for me (maybe more so for the fella) anything I eat bloats the fuck out of me, so I either eat and don’t have sex or don’t eat and do have sex. It’s a real Catch 22, especially when your man’s looking particularly foiiine but you know Meat Mission’s on the cards.
Anyhow, I went H.A.M. on my chicken and fell into a poultry-induced coma before bolting-upright at 4AM with stomach cramps. ‘Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck. Not now, gut. Wait until we are home! We’re at the fellas family abode and the flush is as inconsistent as you are! Pipe down.’ One trip to the bathroom later, tap forcefully gushing to disguise the savage sounds, and I breathed a sigh of relief: ‘That wasn’t so bad. We’ve had worse times, tum.’
* hops back into bed * * notices a river of dribble exiting His mouth * * shudders * * sleeps *
A measly few minutes pass before the mother-load arrives. I know that my bowels means business now. I grab my Poo-Pourri (a scented life-saver you spray over the toilet water that masks all smells. GENIUS. Thanks, Ma) and do a Phoebe-run to the bathroom. Poo-Pourri SPRAYED, windows OPEN, taps ON. The whole shitty ordeal lasted for about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of agonising stomach spasming, so intense that I almost projectile vomit all over the floor (it’s happened before, it’ll happen again). I think it’s all done. I’ve given all I have to give. Surely that’s the end of it.
‘Now to flush and go back to bed!’ * flushes * * toilet water rises *
* flushes again * * murky contents rise once more * ‘Oh shit.’
I spent an hour and a half, at 4AM, flushing and waiting, flushing and waiting, flushing and waiting.
I went in search of a plunger: nowhere to be seen. I desperately scrambled through the cupboards in search of something to shove into the shit-bath: ‘What’s this pointy piece of apparatus? A ped-egg? What the fuck is a ped-egg and how mad will someone be if I use it to shoot my shit through the pipes? What about a broom? I could bleach the end I use afterwards? There’s no lock on this bathroom door though: what if someone bursts in needing to pee and I’m stood over the toilet with a broom twice the size of me, ferociously plunging a basin-full of my own poop? Will the story spread like wildfire? No, I’ll leave the broom. Am I ballsy enough to don a glove and get it moving by myself? Nope. Where’s Bear Grylls when you need him? I’m just gonna have to wait. I’m just gonna have to spend my night looking at this literal pile of shit, freezing my tits off in order to circulate the overwhelming odour and hoping to god they’ve all got bladders the size of Australasia.’ I dashed to the kitchen to retrieve a bucket – all too aware that leaving my post meant anyone could unknowingly stumble into the eye of the shit-storm at any time – and proceeded to fill it up with water. I chugged buckets of water down that toilet in quantities unknown. I chugged for hours. Well, I chugged for at least AN hour. Finally, with the force of one almighty chug that nearly sent the diluted excrement flying around the room, it began to flush away. ‘AT LAST. AT LONG FUCKING LAST!!!’ I cleaned that toilet to within an inch of its life and flung a towel, and my lifeless body, haphazardly round the bathroom to dissipate the smell entirely (Poo-Pourri is effective but I’d have needed an oceans worth to compensate for what had continually regurgitated in that basin).
‘At sweet last. The sun is rising and the birds are singing! Thank fuck that tiresome ordeal is over. Time to get back in bed with the fella. Hold up – I’ve been out of bed for hours now and that little shit hasn’t ONCE come to retrieve me. He hasn’t even stirred! What a douche. Ahhhh a douche! I could’ve done with one of those.’
* goes back to bed, looks over at fella * * river of dribble has now turned into an ocean * * shudders * * sleeps *