I am a food girl. I like it. So sue me. Sometimes (daily) I have issues with portion control and I overindulge a little. As a result, I have achieved a sort of Botticelli-esque roundness that would have made me quite the iconic beauty had I lived in the fifteenth century. But I don’t.
So God has intervened. Lately, when it is clearly time for me to put down my fork and take a load off, I have started to enjoy the symptoms of GERD. That’s GastroEsophogeal Reflux Disease or Gaseous Entrails Reversing Direction, I’m not sure which. GERD is also certainly the best example of onomatopoeia that I’ve ever heard. This is completely a self-diagnosed condition, if you’re reading, Mom. Do not go on WebMD and do not call asking about my cholesterol. It’s fine.
My GERD symptoms are likely imagined, and are certainly not troublesome if you don’t count the occasional vurp (figure it out) that may follow a big meal or the too-fast scarfing of a nice pesto with too much garlic in it. The vurp, which you might recognize as GERD-WAFC (GERD-With Accompanying Flavorful Chunks) is in the official list of Diagnostic Codes, under disgusting functions and symptoms that are your own damn fault.
Of greater concern is a psych-related acronym that has recently manifested in my health portfolio. I’m talking about the chronically uncalled for and inconvenient FWAP (Frustrated Woman About to Pop) which tends to occur every three and a half weeks or so, often accompanied by a severe case of ISYSES (I Suck, You Suck, Everything Sucks). As a public service announcement, I would like to make it known that if you encounter a person stricken by FWAP or ISYSES, you should know that the best treatment is TSAR-SYN (Turn Slowly And Retreat-Save Yourself Now). If you do not heed this sage advice, you may become a victim of YOHYTB (You Only Have Yourself To Blame).
And there’s NICDAT (Nothing I Can Do About That).