So I’m sick. Sick with a distended third world belly. Oh, it may seem comical that I frequently wonder just how close I am to immaculate conception to get a belly like this.
But really, the thought of various amoebas throwing parties in the dim red light of my stomach, dancing away under the slightly intruding disco ball of my bellybutton, thrilled with all the room a missing intestine permits… Gosh.
I’ve tried to fight it. I’ve sent in the AntiBiotic BodyGuards, wielding white blood cells like nightsticks, but they’ve only succeeding in making the party a little less loud – wherein somebody yells “Damn you coppers!” and they kick up their heels and start doing the bumb and grind all over my lower intestine. (Made all the more important by the fact that it's the only one I have left.)
So instead I’m trying to live harmoniously with my resident friends, letting them sap me of energy, like it’s me that’s at the party, not just hosting it. It’s not working very well. I’m thinking that I’m going to have to throw in something a little tougher, perhaps the antibiotic equivalent of Bukowski, who will outlinger and outfester anything silly enough to hang around. I could live with that. Maybe.
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