Cramps The Way

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I’m plagued with a periodic bout of cramps. And last I checked, I had a fully functional penis – except when I have one too many rounds of vodka, or in the face of obesity.

Just last Thursday I was crippled by this radiating pain. A variation of contractions and pulls that for an instant I thought I was growing a vagina. My stomach was cramping so badly, I could hardly do a decent strut to the washroom, where I diligently put the seat covers down before I sat there clutching my stomach in pain. Yes, hygiene is only neglected with inebriation.

It was horrible, but it was also something that I’ve been used to, because this cramp ordeal does have a rather good recurrence frequency with me.

So there I sat at the club, almost sprawled out on the couch. My back slouched comfortably enough to distract the pain and graciously enough so that I didn’t look like I just came out of a backbone removal operation.

I was in so much pain I would have killed for marijuana. It was like being hit by a bus, then ran over by its wheels, then have every alighting passenger step on you. It was tragic, so much so that I would have made a Cambodian kid who lost his leg in a mine field look less worthy of your sympathy.

The hardest part was actually convincing people that I was having cramps, because somehow, people generally tend to think cramps is only a medical symptom isolated in the X chromosome, like excessive shopping, nagging and mood swings.

They: “Why? That time of the month? Haha.”

Yea well, if I wasn’t truly in that much pain, I would have appreciated that cliché humour. The good thing is that no one is funny when I am in pain, because I can’t imagine laughing during cramps. I might tear an appendix or shit my pants uncontrollably, or I might even throw a punch.

Poca was slightly amused because there I was curled up in pain, and bitching incessantly about cramps in the most ironical fashion since Michael Jackson decided to cure racism by turning white.