I got 99 problems and the gallbladder's one.

Hello, void. It's me again. Did you think I would actually commit to this project? Because, honestly, today I did not.

It may come as no surprise, but I did not do anything of import in the last 24 hours. Not that I blatantly promised I would—it was really more of an implication—so maybe that gets me off my own hook.

In my defense, the ole gallbladder has not been pleased with anyone or anything this fine Tuesday, which has made all of the to-do a lot less appealing to-done than it was in the first place. I'll admit that may seem like a weak excuse a lazy person would come up with, and... fair. But biliary reflux on top of acid reflux is a real bitch, man. And that's leaving out the biliary colic and its lovely impact on the even good-er and ole-er IBS.

Why do I have gallbladder problems as an otherwise healthy 31-year-old? That's a very good question no gastroenterologist has been able to answer. At least without (sexist-ly) accusing me of "yo-yo dieting." Wrong assumption, buds. I may fluctuate ten pounds in water and poop on the daily, but I am happy to report that my bones have carried a consistent amount of fat and muscle since I turned 18. We won't speak about my first year of college. And no, the freshman fifteen (god, I hate that stigma) does not count as a yo-yo.

I'm actually pretty sure my digestive system got fucked by me not having a lunch in high school. All those hungry hours between my half a Nutri-grain bar at 5am and sliced apples and caramel at 3pm likely caused irreparable damage. That and the horrible heroine chic standards of the 90s spilling into my psyche since I first realized I was, in fact, of the female sex. I'm sure you can fill in the rest. I haven't met a single woman yet who hasn't at some point grabbed at her love handles and cringed. I would add a trigger warning for my own future reading (and in fact spent the last ten minutes researching an effective one) but it seems that studies are now saying trigger warnings have more negative outcomes than good ones when it comes to EDs so I'll just leave it at that, I suppose.

Anyway, look at me wallowing away my second day's entry. Just like I wanted to not do. On the plus side, because I was uninterested in leaving my heating pad today I did complete the fourteenth poem for the National Poetry "poem a day" project I wanted to do on IG last month. I'm only a month behind on actually posting them now... Still trying to figure out what it is about social media that provokes my immediate, anxiety-ridden retreat whenever I so much as log in these days, but since I'm already excessively late on a poetry marathon no one asked for there's no point in rushing the process.

To be completely real with you, self, I think we both know that social self-sabotage and a phobia of seeing your fantasized "what if's" engagement or wedding photos is the primary IG deterrent for you. Also the career flexing of your UChicago cohort. You never quite got over that imposter syndrome (and being the only graduate Hudson Legal didn't hire didn't help...).

Okay, well, that's more than I meant to write. Only took me a half hour this time, too. Goes to show that editing is the true time-suck here because I did not edit this at all. Lies. I just edited for a half hour. But not very well. As you can probably tell. I also only wrote about my intestines, which is how I predict the majority of these entries will go since four thoughts out of five are about my tummy tunnels' well-being most days.

Anyway. Until next time, blackhole future me watching present me write this through a warped bookcase. (that was an Interstellar reference in case you inherit that touch of dementia early)