(This is about my first trip to the mall after my ileostomy surgery. I had just spent 14 days in the hospital. When I asked my wife to take me there the look of shock on her face was priceless. I avoid the mall like the people there are shuffling around with the plague or something worse. I ended up having to take a break in the food court. Big mistake. Especially since the list of foods I could consume after my surgery was shorter than a stick of gum. And oh, this was before I came to terms with my stoma.)
Holy cow would you look at that guy. He is just two chili-dogs with the works away from a heart attack. God, I’m staring. Don’t stare. It’s not nice. Can’t help it though. Lucky bastard gets to eat hot-dogs. I can’t eat hot-dogs for six weeks. God those onions smell awesome. Dude, you can burp in my face if you want. I wonder if he’s an organ donor? Maybe I should follow him out of the mall in case he goes down. God, just look away.
Whoa, look at this skinny-ass kid with the 44 ounce Coke. Ugh, come here kid and I’ll thump you on your head and steal that. Can’t drink Coke either, though. I can smell the fizz from here. I hear it bubbling up the side of the cup, swirling around the cold ice cubes like penguins, popping as it reaches the surface. That fizz must be dancing on his tongue. Look at the silly face he’s making. That stuff is like Crack. My God he just took like a 15 second sip. Come up for air, dude. What, you’re going back to the soda fountain already? Jerk. You just filled that thing up. Topping it off, huh. You got a long shift at the cell phone kiosk and need to keep sharp. I get it. You’ll be back here in the food court later. Probably get some pizza and another Coke. Maybe a cookie. God, I want a cookie.
Speaking of pizza. Are you f’ing kidding me! The pizza goes in your mouth, little girl. Not down the front of your shirt. Oh man, grease all over your shirt. That’s the best part. And you can’t even correctly utilize your tongue to keep the cheese blob under control. Don’t lose the cheese blob as well! Amateur. Who let this girl even touch a slice of pizza? Oh, must be the mother. Look at her. Same issue. Although she sure as hell doesn’t look like she’s worried about it ripping through her intestines leaving her in a debilitated state and stuck in a bathroom for an hour at the mall of all places. Oh you friggin healthy. Flaunting your damn iron stomachs and steel-lined intestines in my face.
Whoa, a whole table of teenagers chowing down on Chinese. Look at that egg roll. I want an egg roll. My God, golden-brown fried perfection. I bet it has the little stubby shrimps inside of it. About the only thing I can eat on that table though is the rice. Poo poo platter. No thanks. Have had enough of that to last me a lifetime.
Maybe I should go over there and offer them my stoma in exchange for some food. Hey, here is my stoma. He doesn’t have a name. And I can’t even look at him without throwing up in my mouth a little bit. All I want in exchange is your healthy insides. I mean your food. Oh hell, I’ll take your insides.
And look at this guy with the tattoos all over his neck and shit. Oh my God, those onion rings are like the size of tires. He probably has perfect insides. Probably rips huge farts in his car while rolling with his homies. Passing gas is an art form wasted on the healthy. They don’t understand its importance. I hope they appreciate the ability to let one fly while stuck in their cars on the way to work. Or sneaking out a long and silent one at school or in the movie theater. Oddly, I haven’t been able to pass gas in months. And now that I have a stoma….
I’m passing by you. You the healthy. Do you see me? I’m shuffling through the mall just like you. Only you are oblivious to your perfect insides and I just want to heap my diseased guts upon you. Well, what’s left of my diseased guts. Exchange our inside skins. What do you say? You wanna trade?