Note: I no longer have Irritable Bowel Syndrome, thank fucking God:
I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
It’s a stupid fucking disease to have because:
A) It makes me swell up like a pregnant sow and shit hot acid and
B) It has an impossibly stupid name with a you’re-just-cranky connotation that compounds the embarassment of having a chronic medical condition that revolves around shit. That makes you take shits of bizarre consistencies at highly inappropriate times and renders said shit-taking just ridiculously painful.
It’s actually pretty much gone now but back when I had it I didn’t know what it was. That made it worse. Doctors talked about cancer, colitis, Krohn’s– the type of stuff where they have to slice out your colon and your asshole, drill a hole in your side and sew in a plastic pipe attached to a shitbag that you have to empty by hand. What effect this would have on my already limited ability to get laid I dared not speculate. But for months I would just at random have horrible clawing pains in my belly, and then some appallingly discolored substance would fly out of my ass on very short notice and with no regard for my surroundings. I shat myself at work, for instance, several times. Once in a meeting. I shat myself at home and on my bike. You’d think that with repitition any experience becomes normal but shitting oneself in front of one’s peers is an exception.
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