Profiterdoh

Big Michelle likes to tease me about the fact that I have a very sensitive stomach. This is true. Eating big meals gets me bloated like cray. The night we had fondue at Caitlyn's house... God, it was delicious but I was in such agony after that. Little do they know that I refused to share the couch with them as, if I didn't stretch out to the nth degree, I was going to explode in a mass of chocolate and strawberries all over them.

This is particularly annoying when I go to buffets. The classic Burswood (oh, I'm sorry. Crown) Atrium experience. I have been to Atrium at least three times now. Dessert has consequently become my favourite part of the meal and I have vowed to make it my first trip. Why? Because, after two trips to the entree area and at least one to the mains area, my insides are churning and my ileum is trying to escape through my umbilicus. It's like a thousand worms are wriggling around. But these aren't normal worms. They have teeth and are gnawing at my inside. It is so freaking uncomfortable and seriously hampers my ability to get more than my money's worth of food. How can I eat five rounds of dessert when my stomach is three times the size of a third trimester woman's?

The answer is... you can't. The solution to this pain is usually a hot water bottle on the belly, sleeping it off and a nice trip to the bathroom (there, I said it. Let's not lie to ourselves. Flatulence, defecation. It's part of who we are. Having touched the groin of an old man last week as well as my mother's whilst practicing the cardiovascular exam on her, I have no qualms about talking of such matters. In fact, bring it on. The more we talk about it, the more hilarious it becomes).

J