It's all shit in end, anyway

For the last three years, I have been plagued on and off by a mysterious digestive ailment. The bad thing about the mysterious digestive ailment is that I have bathroom explosions that make the burial of Pompeii by Mt. Vesuvius look like a day at the beach. Also, I have horrible gas that could kill a small child or person with a serious respiratory condition. The good thing is that sometimes it causes me to lose weight. (Yeah, I know it’s sick, but I got to find something good in the situation, and it’s not like I control whether or not I crap out everything I eat.) Fortunately, I have a tolerant husband. Not like he shits roses or farts perfume, but many people could be hypocritical about the situation.

I don’t really know what sets me off (other than not taking my supplemental digestive enzymes), I decided to keep what I call an in and out journal. Basically I record what I eat and when and what comes out and when. The saddest part of the whole story is that I’m not even sure what a normal crap looks like any more, so I try to be as descriptive about size and shape as possible. I am not always careful where I leave this important little notebook, and people have on occasion picked it up and started reading it, thinking it was a normal food diary, only to be disgusted by my descriptive entries on my turds. (Hey, if you are going to be nosy, that’s what you get!) Some of my friends have been amused, though. Those are the people I know are my friends for life.