Yesterday I ate a dodgy chicken sandwich. I'm pretty sure it was the chicken sammie, but Deb had one from the same bird and felt fine.
I didn't feel fine.
I've spent most of my time in the toilet since 2pm yesterday and I've got to say I'm over it! My arse is red raw, proving that the all seeing all knowing "Intelligent" designer, royally fucked up when she designed my insides. Surely there's a better way to digest food than to melt it down with acid, and if not, why not make your sphincter a bit more bloody resilient? I would happily transplant the calluses on my heels onto my butt hole if I thought it would give me a bit of relief.
I mean what's the deal with designing me to enjoy eating curries and spicy food but punishing me when they come out again? Sometimes I swear that my insides see the vindaloo coming and rearrange things so that my intestines aren't even part of the equation. There's no chance in hell that curry can make it through 9 metres of twisted flesh tubing without losing any of it's heat!
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