Me, Myself and My Stomach

Joe, Meet Stomach

In the safety of my room, with the VCR taping some obscure Saturday night show, the reality of the situation came to me. We all refer to a talking stomach when strange noises are coming from our innards. Well, I was now facing the prospect that I literally had a stomach that was talking to me. Worse, he was being less than cooperative.

"Hello?" I listened for a response. Nothing.

"Hello?" Still nothing.

"I know you.. I know something is in there." I held my breath, creating a complete silence in my head. Still nothing. Was it just a passing coincidence?

"If you are in there please say something. I just want to talk."

For a moment, I started to think maybe the whole thing was my imagination. I mean really, how could my stomach actually be talking to me?

As I began settling my mind on the idea that it had just been a case of my imagination run wild, a sheepish voice came out from down below, "sorry."

"Hello?" I was a bit skeptical at his return.

"Sorry about what happened with that girl back there," he said with a very sincere, apologetic voice. "I guess I sort of freaked out."

"Freaked out? You totally screwed me over!" I didn't care how apologetic he was, the fact that I was extremely pissed took precedent.

His voice shot back at me rather smugly, "it's not helping if you're going to be a jerk about it. I've given you my apology."

Was he kidding? "Are you kidding?"

"Don't you think I already feel bad enough about chickening out?"

"What the heck were you doing there in the first place?"

"Well, I am..."

I interrupted, "how did you get here?"

"I was there in the first place because, in case you didn't notice, I am your stomach. I wasn't left much choice."

"But where did you come from? You've never been around before."

"I guess I never felt the need to speak up before tonight. I guess I wasn't ready for whatever was about to happen."

"What was about to happen?"

"You were about to make out with those girls..."

"It was a girl, singular!" I was being a smart ass.

"Singular, plural, whatever."

"Am I really having an argument over grammar with my stomach?"

"I just wasn't sure it would work out," he said very matter of factly.

"I guess we'll never know!"

"What if she wasn't going for it? I was just trying to avoid the embarrassment!"

"Again, something we will never know!"

"Ya know, there is no way we're having an honest discussion if you're going to have this attitude. Goodnight, I'm done."

"What attitude? You started this whole thing."

Took me about thirty seconds to realize there was nothing but silence.

"I'm not done talking about this. We've got a serious problem." I poked at my stomach a little, hoping for a reply. Still, nothing.

"Come on, we need to talk about this." I tried to sound a little conciliatory, but still nothing.

After a while, I finally laid down on my bed, perfectly still, trying not to make a noise. I must have waited for a few hours in dead silence, hoping for him to come back. I thought maybe if I was quiet enough, I could at least hear him breathing. Still, nothing.

I fell off to sleep somewhere around 1am. I could have sworn I woke up later on that night to the sound of him snoring, but I wasn't quite sure. It was one of those things where you swear it happened, but you can't be sure it wasn't a dream. One thing was for sure though, my conversation with my stomach was no dream. Life would be a heck of a lot easier if it had been.