I have a digestive disorder. It has a name; I have a diagnosis. And in telling you or anyone else that, I’ve already told the world more than it is entitled to know about my health.
That said, nothing is more annoying than the asshole who insists they’re going to feed me. They make a mountain of food and expect me to devour it all. They pile potatoes on top of rice on top of pasta on top of quinoa and insist that nobody–neither I nor anyone else in the whole history of the planet–could ever be sensitive to so many starches.
Well, petunia, I am. My guts balloon up readily whenever I eat certain cereals and starches. My intestines trigger a nasty response to some carbs and, if I don’t try to modulate the response using the otc remedies I have at home (but never carry with me for some reason,) then I’m going to be in sleepless digestive hell for a fortnight.
Honest to God, that’s the truth.
“All you need is a probiotic!” Nope. No. Nada. Zip it. Gut bacteria are part of the problem. Adding more only makes things worse, trust me. I’ve been down that rabbit hole before and no, I don’t need a probiotic.
“You don’t get enough water.” Shush. I drink more water than you do on a daily basis. Don’t go there.
“My uncle had that and he could eat this.” Well, thanks for that gem of wisdom plucked from your left nostril, Cousin Cletus. We’ll get right on it, shuck-em-up!
Shush. Quiet. All of you. Be silent. Be still.
No, I can’t eat that. Now, no more. Stay in your lane.
My Job Is Scaring You 