TACO TRUCK TORTA TORTURE!!! Pt. ONE

Of all the many adventures, I've experienced, this one by far takes the cake. Being that the event is now past tense (by only a couple of hours), I can look back and find the funny bits, but while it was happening, there was NOTHING humorous about it.

WARNING: If you're squeemish about shit, then don't read any further.

It's Monday. I'm at work, in the office buried under paperwork. I'm working on a project right now, so my hours will be long...pretty much until I go on vacation in December. 8pm rolls around and my stomach starts growling. I get in my car and drive around the Fruitvale District of Oakland a.k.a Little Meh-hico. I was on the hunt for a nice chicken torta. I head to my favorite spot to find that the restaurant decided to close early.

Ever reach a consensus with your belly and tastebuds for a specific type of food and abruptly discover you can't have it? The torture is similar to being on the verge of an orgasm and the phone rings. I go to one of the thousands of taco trucks. I've always stayed away because how can a truck have running water? I just don't get it. But I'm desperate....The measures I take to please my belly.

I order the torta and head for home. I take off my work clothes, bra and undewear, wrap myself in a kanga and flopped on the couch to devour my torta and horchata.

About three hours later, my stomach starts to cramp. I head to the bathroom thinking it was time to relieve myself. WRONG. I sit on the toilet and it starts oozing out. After 5 minutes, I light an incense and leave the crime scene. My brother heads toward the bathroom door and I warn him: "If you value your life, you'll keep clear of the bathroom for about 10 minutes." He heeds my advice and goes to the backyard to piss...It fertilizes the grass.

After the bathroom airs out, I decide to take a shower. I get a horrible naeseous feeling, but I dismiss it. I have to use the bathroom AGAIN! I sit on the toilet and the same thing happens. Then I get that horrible, thick, warm feeling in my throat. It's now coming out at both ends and I have no control over it. My brother knocks on the door, but I can't talk. I'm vomiting in the trash and shitting on the toilet. I clean up, take a shower, wrap myself in a different kanga and hop in the bed. Food poisoning. It just had to get out of my system, I should be fine now...Or so I thought, my ass and stomach decided to further torture me for buying taco truck food.

The vomitting and oozing shit routine happens six more times! It's now to the point, where I'm vomitting yellow bile and my ass is contracting with nothing exiting. SHEER PAIN.
I'm so weak to the point I can't walk. I crawl to the phone and dial 911.

"I need... help...I can't stop... shitting...Come quick." My brother stands over me in complete shock. He calls my parents. My mother wants to talk to me. "Everything will be alright, Ladybug. Just make sure you put a little make-up on. You never know...." I throw the phone with the last bit of energy I can muster. The firemen arrive first...I'll give you the rest tomorrow! I've got to get back in the bed.