I sit perched in my Ford Focus parked outside the Beijing House Chinese restaurant, barking orders at my car’s blue tooth to dial my friend, Serena.
“I just spent an hour blubbering to my therapist about my failed love life.”
“I haven’t had a bowel movement in over a week.”
“Ok you win.”
“I’ve made an appointment with a doctor. After consulting the Internet, I am thinking it could be a blockage or maybe a gut-nesting bacteria monster.”
“Have you taken anything?”
“Not yet. So, therapy?
“Yeah. I’m back to old habits. I’m one facebook message away from being what Vince Vaughn calls a ‘Stage-5 clinger’. I’m also under strict instructions to stop referring to myself as a cyborg. She said I need to be more open and embrace my journey through womanhood, or whatever. “
“I love the word womanhood. I also love the word duodenum.“
“Seriously, you need to take something. Think of it this way, sitting inside your gut is a pile of waste your body has deemed completely useless. It’s too toxic to keep carrying that around. It’s time to get rid of that waste”
“I feel like my colon is an appropriate metaphor for your problems with men right now.”
I head home and devour my order of crab wontons while catching up on The Bachelor. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I need to just stop carrying around the parts of my life that are obviously useless. It’s probably time to discard the waste. I open up my fortune cookie to see the Chinese translation for the word beer, six lucky numbers and this:
I assume it’s referring to my journey through womanhood.