Talking ‘Bout a Revolution

My stomach has been trying to incite a riot all afternoon and evening.   All over a Big Mac.

I’ve never claimed a delicate constitution but in recent years have become both adept at and dedicated to at least considering what goes in my body.  Sometimes, though, these things are better left in locked diaries, feigned as drunken mishaps, or flushed down the toilet.

But last night, well technically, this morning, like 4 or so, I got all nostalgic.  Yes, that’s how they come back girls.  When you’re all vulnerable; maybe a little pissy; half wake but not really asleep.

Florida Evans, of Good Times, was boasting about the Big Mac and chocolate shake she’d eaten.  Now, in my waking life that combo does not even sound like a good idea.  Two slabs  of quasi-meat, between three pieces of soggy bread (why three pieces, Mick?) topped with greyish lettuce; a powdered ice cream concotion.

But somehow the rain and fogginess of the night turned to day.  And I was a little vulnerable; that is, too lazy to go to the grocery store, too cheap to head to the Yabba Pot, determined that I was not gonna use all ten minutes it would have taken to saute my spinach and feta; George Foreman a filet of tilapia.  This was easy.  Could be fun.

For old times sake.  Like when I was in high school and metabolism was a word better left in my chemistry notes; Snickers bars were a reasonable breakfast; and I exercised.  No really.  Wasn’t doing crunches the week before the Homecoming dance exercise?

So I sat at Window Number 2 for seven minutes.  When I picked him up he was a little chilly but I figured the cool reception was because we hadn’t gotten together in awhile.   I soon learned that this was for good reason.  Homey did not know how to act today any more than he had the last time we were together years ago.  Thus pissing my belly off, who’s consequently decided to incite a riot to indicate its disgust over my poor choice.

Perhaps I used to find such antics fun, par for the course.  C’mon you know how it is to be young and dumb; downright blissfully ignorant indeed.  But perhaps it is because I, well my belly, is no longer ignorant.  Has become accustomed to being treated much more kindly than this, and has now decided to have an all out war with Mr. Big Mac to prove said point.

Aw man guys, can’t we all just get along?!