Being a Sagittarius, I tend to go into all situations with a hopeful attitude, even if I know the probable outcome of the endeavor. It makes me seem a bit foolhardy to most, sure, but meh. I prefer to think positively instead of expecting the worst possible scenario. Sometimes, though, even I have to draw the line.
Last night, I had the wonderful opportunity to go over to a friend's apartment and chill out while talking about everything under the sun, including my own writing, Dax Riggs, religious in/tolerance, and erotic horror (there are connections to all of these, I promise, but uh, you'd kind of have to have been there?). Oh, and there was beer.
For those of you who don't know, I have lots of food allergies, the most recently developed of these being a gluten sensitivity. I can still eat some breads, but they have to be whole wheat, and I can't have a shitload of it - a slice or two, maybe - or else there'll be tummy rumblings and general grossness. The funny thing is, beer is kind of how I found out that I was sensitive to gluten, kind of like how I found that I was allergic to latex through condom use. I would wake up after a wild night of wildness, which included a whopping, like, three beers, and feel like absolute shit for nearly half a day, while others who'd drowned themselves in a case were all bouncy and like, "OMG, we should drink again tonight!" Needless to say, parties in college were not a huge staple of my social diet.
Anyway, last night. A friend brought some Rolling Rock, and I thought, "Hmm, I probably shouldn't drink this in huge quantities or very quickly." So I took one and nursed it for several hours, figuring that I'd be okay. Ha. Hahahahahaha. This logic has never worked for me in the past, and I have no idea why I thought it would be any different, but whatever. Around two or three hours after we got back to the house, as Three and I were lying in bed, I felt this weird airy hardness in my stomach that traveled up my esophagus. I groaned because I knew exactly what was going on and what I needed to do, so I kissed Three on the forehead and went downstairs to the bathroom, where I proceeded to experience this horrible set of bodily functions: sweating, gas, diarrhea, vomit, etc. I have no idea how long I was in the bathroom, since I fell asleep with my head resting on the toilet seat and woke up on the floor.
All of that, and only ONE. DAMNED. BEER. Today has been a recovery day, and I keep looking at all of these projects around the house (aka laundry, brushing my teeth, cleaning up the dirt on the kitchen floor that I tracked in when I half-assed took out the trash, etc.) and just thinking, "I don't wanna." It's even kind of taxing to sit and think about what to type next. I don't even think I could watch mindless television right now. It's times like these that I'm glad that I am 1) self-employed and 2) work from home. I'm going to go guzzle a whole glass of water now. Wish me luck, friends.