My Dearest Bowels,

You and I have had issues for quite some time now. I did not complain back in high school when you first took your nasty revenge on me. Wasn't that because of a break-up with my first boyfriend? Ah yes, so it was. I did not complain (much) when you acted up on my wedding night because at least you had the decency to keep our rendezvous brief. I didn't even complain the last time you visited, after my c-section, when your shenanigans fooled the hospital staff, had me quarantined by the infectious disease doctors, and even had the surgeon gleefully talking about "exploratory" surgery.

But now, dear bowels, I am complaining. I can appreciate the fact that you allowed me to escape our meeting for the past eight weeks. I realize the said weeks have been incredibly taxing and were by far the most stressful time I (well, us) have ever encountered. I was under the impression that you were granting me a reprieve from your torture--at least for this one time. I was so thankful...

And then you bestowed a wrath like no other on poor unsuspecting me.

Knocked me off my butt and placed it squarely on the toilet.

Where I have remained, save a few spare minutes, for the past 36 hours.

Yes. 3. 6. Hours.

It hasn't been fun.

Isn't it time for a truce, oh beloved bowels?

Surely all of this is getting old, right? I would greatly appreciate it if you would vacate this current little game of yours and allow me a little peace. I so need peace right now.

Stacie

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Irritable bowel sucks.