To My Stomach:

I'm sorry for the way I've treated you. I know you deserve better, as we often times do, but I just fall short in the health department. I don't think I'm alone here, but I'm still sorry. Yes, I did just shove 4 corndogs into you in under 10 minutes, and yes I washed it down with a nice, cold Natty Light, but you had to know we were doing this college thing and that it would be stressful, right?

Let's not point fingers at my lack of self-control and salivary glands - you haven't been totally innocent when it comes to growling like a ravenous lion starting at 10 p.m. and ending a half a jar of cookie butter later. But I don't blame you, just like you shouldn't blame me. We all have our faults and I love you even when you hate me for the large pepperoni pizza, large fries, and Route 44 cherry limeade that I can inevitably consume all in one breath at 2 a.m. the morning of a final. On the bright side, there are the really good days, sometimes even weeks, and that makes it all feel right again.

When we treat each other with respect, like when I eat that salad (with just a little bit of cheese) and drink 8 liters of water, and when you don't send acid shooting up my esophagus when I do eat that baconator, it's great. Like, Rachel & Monica in the wedding dresses great. It's like the highest sense of loyalty you could ever dream of and it's internal. But then, the external giant golden arch happens, and it's the emotional (and intestinal) roller coaster all over again.

Maybe one day, when I'm not switching from sleeping 14 hours a day, to 30 minutes, to 12 hours over a span of 5 naps and all over again; and when I don't have friends calling me at all hours to eat every kind of fast food within a 20 mile radius, we can find the perfect balance. But until then, I have to ask you: can you please, please just hold up and treat me with a little dignity until that balance occurs? And if it never does, I am deeply sorry, but you can only point the fingers at the temptations brought forth by living in a country where there are about as many fast food restaurants as there are gas stations and churches (below the Mason Dixon line, anyway). So, let's agree to disagree temporarily on some things, and if the whole career thing works out, then I vow to feed you well and only as often as is deemed socially acceptable. In turn, you can vow to do your job in a timely manner with minimal noises when we're in a quiet place. And if the career thing doesn't work out, well, let's both hope that I can find a nice, clean dumpster to dive into and find those 3 day old donuts. If that's the case, I think there will be more pressing matters than how well we're treating each other.

Thanks for kicking it with me these past 21 years. You deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for working with me all this time.

Love,

The Rest of My College Body