It took me much of my adolescence to overcome my fear of any unexpected self-inflicted bodily violence in the form of food rejecting barf or explosive diarrhea. As a child, every time I threw up, I would immediately cry. Perhaps it was the feeling of hot lava burning my esophagus followed by the aftertaste of a spoiled spaghetti sauce and stomach bile cocktail that I found so traumatizing. But who’s to say? I’m so happy bulimia could have never worked out for me! Diarrhea was the same story. It wouldn’t drive me to tears, but I would hold it in until I turned green. I was terrified of diarrhea because it would burn my a*hole as it exited, coloring the entire toilet with toxic excrement full of identifiable food particles, while exuding a foul odor that could penetrate bricks and mortar. No thank you.

But my mother’s constant reassurance that I would feel better after either throwing up or exploding on the toilet is what allowed me to finally heed my body’s warnings. I even admire diarrhea now for its hurricane speed and the instant relief in its aftermath. I don’t understand anymore why anyone would want to stop or delay this act of God by taking Pepto-Bismol or Imodium when a solution to one’s ills can be had with just an express trip to the bathroom! Just make sure to always carry a book of matches (AKA air fresheners) in your purse.