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This is a tale of caution, friends.  So read with the steadfast wisdom that your fathers and forefathers possessed, in the hope of passing down a fragmented truth to your children; because you need not tread the path that I walked upon; feeling what I felt; hurting like I hurt; losing what I lost.

It began with delivery.

What can I say about this East coast living, other than ordering food has never been made more simple.  In fact, it’s dangerously simple because once you’ve found the talisman that are food apps, the temptation to be a lazy asshole and order food like it’s an infinite resource may become too great.

Many a man has fallen to ruin, simply ordering delivery.

Yet here I was, anticipating the recherché-pleasures of a Chinese meal chosen from the wares of a restaurant that I had come to know quite well from my late night endeavors.  The shrimp, served with a light coat of breading – fried to a crisp but enjoyable crunch; the entrée of a golden colored fried rice speckled with peas and fried egg and carrots, with a few ears of broccoli to complete presentation; the orange chicken, coated with a generous glaze of the sauce, topped with two slices of an organic orange.


And so there I was, on a Monday night consuming the meal that made me happy.  For a moment in time, I was without a care in the world, face buried into a meal that I knew I wouldn’t be able to finish in one sitting.  However, that was all part of the plan, you see?  Because nothing is better than having a meal to come home to after a hard days work, and so I knew that tomorrow would be a cakewalk because hell, one meal was already taken care of.

Thus, I ate my fill and stored the remains in the refrigerated unit that would cool the contents of my cuisine.

A day comes and goes, and I find myself returning to the dinner that I happily consumed not yet a night ago.  Retrieved from the refrigerator, I plop the container into the microwave and reheated the dish and begin eating.  Same as before.

With the bias of hindsight , I swear there was a point where I thought to myself, “I don’t think that piece of chicken was cooked all the way?”

Yet I tore through the food recklessly and threw the emptied container aside once I was filled with the remainder of the dish.

It was evening when I finished, so I figured I’d do some writing, perhaps be constructive, wash my bedding, clean my room, read.  The night was young and the possibilities were endless.

But out of nowhere, a knot began to form in my stomach.  The sort of knot that will have a grown man hunching around his apartment, praying to the furniture and all the gods and all the heavens and all the hells for any type of relief.

I was instantly bedridden.

The darkness began to cloud in around me.  I wanted nothing more than the death of the day.  I hobbled around in attempts to walk off the pain that was brewing in my lower section.  Short breaths.  A cold sweat.

I moved from a chair to a bed, from a bed to a couch, from a couch to the floor, from the floor to the toilet, and from the toilet to the chair.  And repeated.  Relief was nowhere to be found.  I felt as though I had been undone.  Like, I was fighting for my life.

And as I clung to an obsolete hope, the realization began to trek it’s way back up.  I could feel it in my upper chest.  Mouth felt dry.  The truth was upon me and I had to act quick.

A quick dash to the bathroom.  The brief moment before storm.  And then all at once, I was blowing chunks like an exorcist scene.  The first wave pulled me down, intimately close to the toilet, as I felt everything resurface.  The shrimp, formerly served with a light coat of breading – fried to a crisp but enjoyable crunch; the entrée of a golden colored fried rice speckled with peas and fried egg and carrots, with a few ears of broccoli that had once completed presentation; the orange chicken, the fucking orange chicken.

The second wave; all the water that I had consumed trying to make myself feel better. It came out of me like a tidal wave.

Then the rains  came.

Oh yes, it was like my stomach pressed the full evacuation button.  I found myself flipping a 180, sitting on the toilet and just letting go.

I sat in the lowest and most dejected state of fortune, standing still in esperance, living with an altruistic loss.

Because for the next few days, as I dealt with liquefied bowels and sporadic fevers and a broken heart, I realized something was gone.  Something I that I had used so freely before.  Something that I would never again have.