Fuckin McDonald's

Things were going so well. The new medication was moving everything down appropriately, especially at night. Everyday the boot under my ribcage was getting one size smaller. I started genuinely believing my hiatal hernia would be a thing of the past and washboard abs would be in my future. The arc of history was bending towards health.

Then I got cocky. I started believing history's ultimate destination was a foregone conclusion. I forgot that vigilance is what bends our arc.

I was on my way to BWI airport from Philadelphia, on my way to picking up Avi and then boarding with him in D.C. for the week. I was running a little early and hadn't eaten dinner so I took an exit, tempted by the promise of a Taco Bell, and followed the signs only to find a dark and empty restaurant. I wasn't running that early so I was left one option, the fucking golden arches. Now, I wasn't so cocky to think I down a whole jumbo sized value meal or whatever. I just got one of those Southwest Chicken Sandwiches they were hyping a while back and an order of fries. I didn't think it was too extreme.



But all week, the boot just grew and grew. My streak of days with bowel movements was broken, and the bowel movements I did manage were measly little ones. Worst of all, I could feel food lingering in my esophagus again, not going down. I would wake up with soreness in my chest. And for what? Damn McDonald's. Never again. Not while I'm still this fragile.