Humor
I Proudly Suffer From Acid No-Fucks Disease
A world in which I can’t have weird cheese dreams is not one I want to live in.
Stomach pain. Persistent bitterness. Burps that threaten to turn into something more at any second. These may all be signs of chronic acid reflux. But if you suffer symptoms like this repeatedly and think “nah, worth it” you may have something even more severe: Acid No-Fucks disease. And you’re not alone.
Acid No-Fucks Disease has become increasingly common among people who chase Prilosec with nachos, who guzzle marinara sauce like the rebels they are, who have got Fruity Pebbles-fried chicken down to a science. If you felt a little heartburn just from reading all that, then you give a fuck, or possibly multiple. I guess I envy you. That’s not a way of life open to all of us. Me, I proudly bear the esophageal scars of my condition, although if you actually saw them it would probably be a HIPAA violation.
I spent years of my life giving fucks. Oh, the fucks I gave. I gave a fuck about my persistent stomach pains. I gave a fuck about the slow erosion of my teeth from the inside. I gave several fucks about taking antacids, so much so that the chemicals in Tums gave me a gnarly blue giraffe tongue on a regular basis. All my openly gastric friends thought it was from drinking Blue Raspberry Slush Puppies. I literally didn’t have the guts to tell them otherwise.
Now I can see that life before Acid No-Fucks was far more miserable. Last time I saw my gastroenterologist she told me I had a death wish and broke her clipboard in two with rage before ordering me to leave. I walked out laughing, went home and relaxed in my rocking chair, double fisting bloody marys while admiring my autographed Sean Evans poster.
Yeah, I know the science. And you know what? I don’t care. I don’t care that I have to choke back something that tastes like rancid molten lava on a daily basis. A world in which I can’t have weird cheese dreams is not one I want to live in. I’m driving this ship, and I say full steam ahead to Lasagna Island.
True, Acid No-Fucks is both a blessing and a curse. There are times where I do take a look at my condition and make difficult choices. One of the big ones was when I stopped using Frank’s Red Hot on every meal after I shat myself at my niece’s graduation. It was a tough call. Tears, among other fluids, were shed. But the point is, Acid No-Fucks isn’t a black and white issue, unless you specifically give no fucks about eating black and white cookies, which, good for you, really, we should all be so lucky.
You know what another word for Acid No-Fucks is? Courage. When I bite into an apple fritter the size of softball, I feel a rush. There’s nothing like watching glazed sugar crumble to the ground like the souls of your enemies. This is the closest I’m going to get to climbing Everest. Do we tell all the lithe hipsters who want to go clamber up El Capitan barefoot that they have Alex Honnold disease? We probably should, to be honest. Apparently, pushing your body to the limit is only a crime when that body emits roughly 15 bph (belches per hour).
People look at me like I’m tempting fate, that I’m one Pad Thai away from my intestines bursting out of my body like The Thing. I say, bring it on. I’m the James Dean of poor throat lining. Live fast, die young, leave some good-looking leftovers.
Actually, depends on what kinds of leftovers. If it’s Reese Witherspoon’s Corn Bread Chili Pie, go ahead and bury that with me.
