Yesterday was supposed to be chill. I woke up, had a normal breakfast, and later ate a peach for lunch—which, in hindsight, might not have been washed as thoroughly as it should’ve been. That may have been where this saga began.
Anyway, I went down to the beach for a quick swim—just 15 or 20 minutes—and had to head out early to get back home for some work. On the way back to the house where my friends were staying, I walked like 12 blocks, stopped at the boardwalk, and grabbed a full pizza. Gave away four slices when I got back, kept two for my wife and me.
On the drive home, I was feeling great. Sun, swim, and pizza? Not a bad combo. I ate my two slices in the car and cruised along for about an hour and a half. That’s when things… shifted.
I was maybe half a mile from my house when I felt that unmistakable warning shot in my stomach. You know the one. The kind that says, “You need to find a toilet. Now.” I let out a few cautious farts—hoping, praying they were dry—and somehow, they were. But it was clear: I was on borrowed time.
I spotted a Burger King and made a hard turn into the lot like a man on a mission. I ran in, hoping to find a multi-stall bathroom where I could disappear into a corner for the next half hour. Nope. One room. One toilet. One sink. One lock. No backup.
I sat down and immediately entered what I can only describe as digestive Armageddon. Cramps, cold sweats, nausea, waves of saliva like I was about to throw up. My body was purging something with the fury of a thousand suns. It was rough.
About 15 minutes in, someone knocked. I croaked out, “I’ll be out in a few minutes!” Still mid-battle. Five minutes later—another knock. This time I shouted it, “Sorry! I’ll be a few more minutes!”
See, this kind of situation always hits me in two waves. The first is explosive, the second sneaks up on you when you think you’re in the clear. So I waited. Another five minutes pass, and now I’ve been in there for about 25 minutes when the manager knocks. He identifies himself and says he needs me to come out, or he’s calling emergency services.
Not “an ambulance.” Just “emergency medical services,” which made it sound oddly formal and extra dramatic.
I apologized, told him I was dealing with a serious bathroom issue, and promised I’d be out as fast as I could. He wasn’t thrilled. At this point, I knew I wasn’t done, but I also knew I couldn’t stay. I had to make an exit before things escalated.
So I did the fastest cleanup job humanly possible. Used half a roll of toilet paper. Wiped up everything that needed wiping (and there was a lot), washed my hands, and left that bathroom like a defeated soldier retreating from the battlefield. Head down. No eye contact. Straight out the door.
I got in my car, and immediately regretted it. My gut started gurgling again like I had a demon doing somersaults in there. But I was so close to home—I just floored it, pushed past our very excited dog, yelled “Hi!” to my wife without slowing down, and made it to our bathroom just in time to unleash round two.
Fifteen more minutes of chaos.
Afterward, I collapsed into bed and somehow managed to sleep for five and a half solid hours. I thought the worst was behind me.
Nope.
As soon as I stood up this morning? Instant rumbling. Like my stomach said, “Oh, you thought we were done? Cute.”
I’ve got meetings all day and we’re working through lunch. I have no idea how I’m going to survive this. Whatever that peach or beach pizza did to me, it’s not done yet.
Pray for me.