Many of you have noted that my entries here have recently gone down a rather shaded Plath (har!), an indication of my perceived loneliness. But what none of you detectives have perceived is that, at the precise time that these ruminant, peripatetic (is that the word I want?) began, what also began was a stream (intended) of diarrhea.
There is very little research into the correlation between loneliness and diarrhea. An unhelpful, unLucky Google search brought up an article on "The relationship between loneliness, interpersonal competence, and immunlogical status in HIV-infected men [Note: I am neither an "HIV-infected man" nor does "in. competence" have anything to do with "incontinence" (or out-continence). A JStor search led me to an article about Radical Theatre in the 60s and a Sam Shepard play ("La Turista"), a two-act play in which the main character, an American in Mexico named Kent, has sleeping sickness in Act 1 and dies of diarrhea in Act 2. Though the tourist part is tempting, the sleeping sickness is hardly applicable. Except, of course, that I think sleeping is sick!
Why so much diarrhea? Well, imagine my situation. You have a stomachache, but you're hungry. You've had diarrhea after lunch, and you are a little uncomfo, but you need some diarrhea. Can you imagine having this conversation:
"Where do you want to eat dinner?"
"Hmm, I don't know, I have an upset stomach."
"How about Thai food?"
No, you would never. One jarn ("plate") with too much Prick Water* and you're back to the John with your prick between your legs and your butt water hitting John water.
[* Prick Water = chili sauce. In Thai, "Nam prik" is spicy-ish Chili sauce. "Nam" refers to most liquids, most notably water; "Prik" means chili. But whenever I think of "Nam Prik" I think of Prick Water. Color me juvenile, Martin Lawrence.]
Phew. What does this have to do with loneliness? I don't know. I'm guessing nothing. When I have diarrhea, I actually like to be alone. Is there anything more embarrassing than going diarrhea in an acquaintance's house? Or at a restaurant when you're sober? Is there anything more uncomfortable than sitting at a table with a fellow, and you get the ol' sour pinch, and either A) you try to sit it out and continue talking, and try not to make your writhing too noticeable or B) decide to shit it out and retreat to the bathroom, to return minutes later with owl eyes, panting, and with your companion chuckling or disappointed or Cotillion-style scandalized.
I've got fisters on my blingers!