For as long as I have been cognitively aware of her presence, my maternal grandmother has had the ability to predict precipitation by slapping twice at her weak left knee. Still, snazzy geriatric tricks aside, arthritis is close to being the bane of my grandmother’s existence, much as I’m realizing now that my stomach is mine. Oh, for a while it had me convinced that it was all in my head, a mere coincidence that I was struck by a twenty-four hour stomach flu during two consecutive Christmases. And who can forget back in ninth grade when I lost my ability to hold down anything heavier than orange juice for breakfast? Mind over matter, my mother told me. But then two years ago, when an ulcer had me carrying around economy 4-packs of TUMS and avoiding spicy foods and coffee like an overworked 55 year old mid-level accountant, I finally accepted that my stomach probably calls me ‘stupid mother-fucker’ behind my back. Because both people and bodily organs that consistently bring the hurt while you make excuses for them are calling you ‘stupid mother-fucker’ behind your back, trust me.

I woke up at around eight this morning and immediately started rocking back and forth cursing my dreaded stomach for today’s newest malady. It feels like someone stabbed me in the stomach with a precise instrument while I was asleep, and now I’m bleeding to death internally. I could tell myself that my stomach is reacting badly to the meat I ate last night, but seriously? My stomach reacts badly to Aunt Jemima Pancake Syrup.

I already had a green Popple, but I dearly wanted a 'girl' Popple (preferably the fat pink Popple, but no dice). My mother wouldn't buy me another one, so I purchased this in secret from the Bazaar hosted by my after-school day care program. I don't remember what my seven-year-old self told my mother, but I doubt it was the truth, because playing with used stuffed animals was just about up there with eating pizza from the neighbour's garbage.

I named her Stacey, after my cousin. She lived on the corner of my bureau until a few years ago when the most obvious remnants of my youth were shoved into my closet. Unfortunately, in the last eight months or so Going to Work has also included Buying Clothes I Don't Really Need, so Stacey had to give up her spot in my closet.

Most recently she and her plastic bagged brethren serve as a prop for the giant gift box I received for my birthday in March [cropped out of photo].

It's 2:30AM and my LATE essay is only half finished and it's due today by 3:00PM or else I lose an entire grade and I don't think I'm going to get to sleep for even a minute tonight, and OH MY GOD how ironic is it that my final paper EVER is going to require my first real all-nighter? And WHY is my computer making those chomping noises right now? What's wrong with TYPING IN ALL CAPS? Who invented Internet etiquette? WHY AM I STILL HERE AND NOT FINISHING MY LAST PAPER EVER? Was Boyz II Men right, is it really so hard to say goodbye?

How did I let it get to this? Too bad there isn't a sobbing key button.

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