Category: Doodles

Dear 2013 | Resolutions, Replays & Ridiculousness

You may wonder what I expect of you. Chances are that, already, I have overblown your proverbial balloon with 200-ton expectations and a heaping mountain-sized dose of blind optimism. My bad.

2012 was something like hell for me. While it had its high tides, its low blows seemed near fatal, at times, and mostly just… well, depressing. So, yes, the dawning of a new calendar on my wall [the 2013 I Can Has Cheezburger LOLCat Calendar, to be precise] has my eyes a-glitter with some serious hope. This just HAS to be the year they invent affordable jet packs or a Transatlantic tunnel.

You know… I had so many expectations for last year—so many goals and resolutions that I never got to. I mean, I could spend all day listing the personality flaws that need fixin’, the calories I should be cutting and margins of productivity I wanted to conquer, but I’ll refrain to save you some jive bitching. [I really should take up drinking or something…] Anyhow, let’s face it;
you kind of sort of owe me one. No?

In ranting and raving about the year past, let me also note that I’m not the only one with a steamship full of disappointments [sinking ship?]; it appears 2012 wasn’t a bitch for just me. Nearly everyone I talk to had a shitty year, too. 2012 was amaze with separations, sicknesses, deaths, moves and heated political debates. I realize most years have ups and downs, but last year, in my rear-view mirror and the mirrors of many others, those 365 days smarted some sick-nasty destruction. Personally, by December, I was rooting for the promised end of civilization [See: End of the World.]

In conclusion: you should be preparing for a stellar year. We deserve it! [If it takes a dozen or so HJ’s to accomplish this, I’m willing. Just sayin.]

Sincerely, your friend,

In an attempt to keep my resolutions both optimistic and generic, I drew a doodle to commemorate:
Thank you, Instagram! [Follow me: 1flychicken]

…Oddly enough, it’s only January 7th and already I received my first speeding ticket, fallen down the icy stairs and hurt myself, had about three zombie dreams aaaaaand got my period. Really, 2013? Can we try a little harder…?

Lights out on Greensburg: “Weirdo”

It’s not every day, or any day actually, that this girl goes to the bar. Um… The “Errybody-Let’s-Get-Fucked-Up” gene must’ve skipped this pool. Trust me. I’ve got enough bad habits. I enjoy being social and gabbing and laughing and getting rowdy; it’s just… I prefer it over a latte. Besides a drunk chicken gets herself into a lot of unsavory situations: reckless flirting, a false sense of invincibility, vomiting and [often by the end of the night] end-of-the-world weeping. And for the love of Titan, keep me away from my phone.

All this said, I decided it was time to shelf my need for productivity and join some friends at a bar downtown. My new pad allows me the ability to walk and so I thought I’d stroll down. A lot farther than I figured, but I’m happy for that little feature on my iPhone’s map app that allows one to route by foot.

So as I’m making the turn off of Main Street and toward Harry’s, an ambulance whizzes by and I make my decent into… complete and utter darkness? No street lamps. No neon bar signs. Even the stoplight is blacked out, hanging from its rope like three dark eyes glaring an omen. I stopped in the sidewalk and waited. Listened. From the unlit guts of another local bar came an outpouring of stumbling 30- somethings.

I hesitated in midst of all this, of course, but ambled down the hill towards Harry’s anyway. What the hell. It was definitely more exciting than what I’d been doing previously. When I got there, a few loud drunkards were rolling out the door, beer-in-hand, apparently just as excited. But guess what?! There was light inside the joint!

It was my first time at Harry’s and I must say, probably one of the most memorable bar experiences. Maybe it was because I decided NOT to drink after all [sooooo lame, I know.] But I really believe it was the setting: the bar lined with tiny candles, the shadows of people laughing an harassing one another, the group of new and old friends that I hadn’t seen for quite a while, and even my own thing I had going on—doodling by a wee flame, taking it all in.

The owner, in his attempt to razz just about every warm body at the bar, came over a few times to shine his flashlight on my doodle, snatch it from me and then proceed to show it off to everyone at the bar. But, at some point, this sweet, somewhat gruff gesture was followed by a “Damn, weirdo drawing pictures at the bar,” at which I cringed and got a little blue for a moment. But then smiled because I knew he was just being a jackass, but also because I was having fun and I didn’t give a shit, you know?

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m strange, and sometimes it makes me feel 900x more alone. But most times it’s ok. And I realize the best strange is being strange with strangers. Ha. Make sense? Maybe it doesn’t. But I had a good night, even if the power never came back on. Probably because of it.


To the moon. One shot.

The poem-a-day gig is leaving its indent on my days. In fact, I spend much of my time determining a suitable time slot for versing it up. Sunday: between grabbing dinner and visiting with a friend [Walking Dead time]—I pulled into a Baptist church lot to pull a poem from me. Felt odd. Sadly it didn’t end there. I spent another hour later trying to hone it in, just touching noses with the midnight “deadline.”

Alas, a poem is born. I’ll share one soon. The prompts have been pretty accessible. I’m sure something, at least, will come of it. (:

I thought, in spirit of my doodle madness, I’d share some squiggles with you all. And namely, there is this master toy-maker (aka A-Fred) to whom I’ve been promising a post!

Not much on this gadget, but…


Who is wearing all black?

To all those mourning this sacred, paper-heart holiday, don’t. I see more people bitching and crying about Valentine’s Day than not, so in the spirit of this, I thought I’d share with you a poem. Why, you might ask. I know you’re biting your nails in anticipation, but this holiday–as is its biggest gripe–is about something that doesn’t necessarily exist. Not in the lacy-red romance sort of way.

Eff that, I say! Romance does exist. Just not when it is overly planned and raised to such high expectations. My hippie friend say that Valentine’s Day was conceived by greeting card companies. Shit. Every holiday I know of is commercialized to the max. No matter where it comes from, I wish for you–single or not–the passion of something this day. This and every day, really. I don’t care if it’s your fantasy hockey team that gives you that tingly feeling in your chest or the porn under your mattress. In a world where technology is slowly replacing thought and feeling, get it where you can.

And this poem. It stole my heart from the moment I read it. So raw and real and honest. Please read!


I’ve got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
i beg you do not go

Frank O’Hara

With love,

Layers just mean warm

Here comes the cold weather. Already I have coworkers and friends asking how many layers I’m wearing. Yea, I’m pretty much the coldest person I know, keeping my work office at like 92˚F. It’s fine. I may or may not have blood. Anyhow, with the colder weather comes the “homeless” jokes.

Sometimes it isn’t a joke, I guess. Once, in Omaha, Nebraska, a woman coming out of the ice cream shop with her little boy thought I was homeless. She took one look at me with my backpack and clothing, eating ice cream on the curb, and grabbed her boy—pulling him far from me.

I’m not homeless, though. I’m very cozy in my home right this second. Believe it or not, I just finished up my Ovaltine and I think I might go to bed. Early.
Am I the only one that bundles up and pays no mind to bulky limbs and mismatched color schemes? Listen, kids. It’s Southwestern Pennsylvania. When the wind comes, it feels like it’s ripping through your garments ready to knock you on your ass.
Happy week of Halloween, peoples. I will be updating with photos. <3
PS: The Ovaltine in the orange container is the only good Ovaltine. Peep that.

PSS: If you’re looking for a good poem read: How a Poem Happens

Semicolon Happy: A Life Lesson

One of my favorite marks is the semicolon. Don’t get me wrong; he’s a pretentious little twit sometimes. Honestly, I’m not, you know, a world-class grammarian or anything, but one of my favorite things in life EVER, is the misuse of this little snot. Not only because I wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for grammatical/spelling errors, BUT because the semicolon is one of those extras. You need not use one. There is never a time when a period is completely unacceptable. Semicolon is stylish, flashy… he is like the fur lining on your hoodie, you know?

If you’ve ever wondered what in the #¢*! to do with a semicolon… I’ve got a few that I think are most important (or, at least, most common.)


The easiest: use a semicolon in place of a period between two separate sentences without the conjunction. (Conjunction is like “and,” “but,” and “because.”) These two “sentences,” can be considered independent clauses, meaning they could stand alone, you know, with their subject and verb; however, the semicolon here signifies a closer connection between them—closer than a period!

Stop by McDonald’s and get me a Rolo McFlurry; I’ll give you dollars when you get here.

I stopped going to class after the first two weeks; it put me right to sleep. 
While it’s not like GUN-TO-THE-FOOT* important, it is preferable to use semicolons before introductory words/phrases that introduce complete sentences. Some of these words are “however,” “therefore,” “besides,” and “for example.” (Remember the comma afterward!)

Lisa is notorious for sleeping around; therefore, I was hesitant to sit, raw-bottom, on her toilet.

I can’t wait to get into a good college; however, I’m dreading the loan repayment.

Now, this one is a wee bit tricky, but sort of necessary for clarity. Use a semicolon between items in a list, when the items contain commas. They call this type of list (with internal punctuation) a “complex series.” Haha.

Leah dated a lot of guys in the medical field, such as: Scott, the physical therapist; John, the doctor-in-training; Chad, the male nurse; and Bill, the pharmacist.


Done with the banter! But hey, you get the idea. Common, everyday language is more prone to rule one, but trust me there are more rules! If nothing else, just don’t use them. Eff convention, throw in a period and be done with it.

Enough rules. Not so swiftly, I’m trying to focus my attention on something else other than that stupid Casey Anthony case; though, it appears to be everywhere right now. Stuff like that rots my brain out, makes me so sad.

HEY. What punctuation/grammar issue do you come across most? This might help me. I need some idea of what people are struggling with most. Share your funny/sad/angry stories about grammar, spelling, or punctuation. I’d love to hear them, honest.

*GUN-TO-THE-FOOT was just an un-clever way for me to say “gun-to-the-head” without such messy imagery!
** I hate footnotes!

My History with Music & Trouble

I’d normally begin this history with a longer summary of my youth… something about arguing with my mom in the car about her Adult Contemporary radio selection. (Though, there’s really something about Phil Collins and Don Henley that really does it for me these days. HA!)  Or, taking it way back, let’s talk about how I accidentally taped over my cassettes, one Disney soundtrack at a time, with this kiddie recorder I had. In the middle of “Hakuna Matata,” there were, at least eleven, abrupt intermissions in the music, followed by a giggle or a squeal or a less original, “HELLLOOOOOO. 1 2 3.” Apparently that’s all the higher I could count at 5.

Proof of the wee chicken with her first exposure to stardom.

Anyhow, let’s bring it up to speed a bit. I have to admit this weekend seemed a little goofy from the beginning. I had no “legit” plans for Friday night. See, this is already trouble. There is something about ending the work-week with a bang. No matter how sleepy or lazy I feel by Friday at 5 PM, I’m ready for action. (Usually making time to nap first.)

After a feast of Southern-Style BBQ with friends (which fiasco I’m purposefully omitting from this tale because of my seemingly unhealthy obsession with food and over-eating), we gathered at my house to decide the next course of action. We had no ideas other than “not drinking,” which already makes me sound lame, I know.

Three guy friends and I stood on the front porch in a nerd-like panic. OMG?! IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT! DO WE HAAAVE TO GO OUT? DO YOU WANNA GO OUT? I MEAN, WHERE WOULD WE GO?… I GUESS I COULD. DO YOU WANT TO, THOUGH? After a long series of go-no-where questioning, spotted with vacant moments of expressive stares, and can-you-just-read-my-mind eyes, we finally caved. Coffee? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

There is nothing wrong with coffee: nothing wrong with the morning cup at work, the “Hey, let’s go get a cup of coffee” between old friends, and of course, the occasional caffeine mania when most every other young adult in this city is already, at the very least, tipsy and eyeing up some unhot bartender. It was 10 PM, and though, the tall/small/tiny/littlest was an option, I opted for the largest. We all did. “Go big or go home,” they say. I’m pretty sure that phrase had nothing to do with coffee, and more likely something a bit harder like Miller Lite.

For the record, I’m a huge fan of iced coffee. Especially since the weather has been giving us a little more sun and a little less snow. [Us Pennsylvanians are all feeling eager to smack ourselves into the next season (today, in fact!), SPRING.]

Yep. Like I said before, there is absolutely nothing wrong with a good ol’ caffeine rush among friends on your porch, on a Friday night. Until someone gets the bright idea to sing, that is. And still…

Now this is where I’m going to reverse for a moment and remind everyone (and myself) of my first high-school-aged offense. I had gotten into the routine of flailing down the hall in a silly way—specifically, doing my best opera-style “Hallelujah.” It was fun, loud, and best of all… obnoxious as all get out. What else is a freshman to do but live up to the stereotype? I obviously had no choice. My operatics had skidded their way under the radar over and over. In fact, when teachers did start catching on to my screechy proclamations, they laughed. I won.

Until one day, a certain math teacher decided to call me out on my inane (and honestly, awful) singing, when I barged into his classroom, the trail-end of my melody snailing with me. I was told to stop, mostly in a polite way. Still, I didn’t enjoy being told this in front of my peers, nor the made-up rule at all. And like most ridiculous crap teenagers had to endure, I protested. “Why? But I’m just singing? Is it really against the rules to sing in between classes? Do you not want us to be happy, Mr. So&So?” He ignored me. Of course. I was hitting too close to the truth, I thought, and decided I would do it over again the next day and see just exactly what this fool was after.  I hallelujah-ed the following day, ripping through the busy halls in song. And, boy, did I think I was brilliant with this one; I would silence myself at the exact moment I crossed the threshold into his classroom, a blatant sass-ass. Technically, I wasn’t singing in his classroom, so I wasn’t under his jurisdiction, right? I was immediately sent to the principal’s office, where after a good ten minutes of amazement at my “crime,” the principal sent me off with an obligatory detention slip. My second detention EVER was for writing: “My mom is drunk and naked on the street corner,” in Spanish. I was definitely the queen of getting absurd-sounding detentions.

Anyway, back to the much older, modern day criminals: we giggled and gabbed on my front porch on Friday night, until it was someone’s bright idea to sing. I don’t recall how it began. Perhaps someone just started and we all pitched in. Either way, our harmonies moaned and chirped over the dead-nothingness of my suburban neighborhood. The rows of houses were our acoustics, the feral rabbits our audience. We were quite pleased with ourselves, too: inserting the right “boo-ba-boos,” just the right tone or key, even the way we could mimic the sounds and backdrop beats of the original jams. And once we cleared the “Star-Spangled Banner,” “Amazing Grace,” and “Mr. Sandman,” we realized we had no other song knowledge in common. So…

Bearded One and I started with “O’ Holy Night,” and, as a group, we ran the gamut up until “White Christmas,” boosted by the bass of Hat Boy’s low vocals. We were out there for about an hour, I’m sure,  laughing at ourselves, singing, trying to remember the words to obscure second verses. Until the cops came.

Apparently, someone ratted on us. I felt an immediate sense of disbelief. REALLY? Really? really? Just as ridiculous as my 9th-grade offense, only Mr. Cop Man was nicer. He told us someone called to say we were having a “really big party” and he could see this wasn’t true. I felt like a loser. A 25-year-old chick, surrounded by her guy friends, with nothing better to do on a Friday night than overdose on iced coffee in her pajamas and sing Christmas carols, mid-March, on her porch. It’s fine. It is really fine.

Life Lesson #1875: Next time the cops get called on you, actually be engaged in something worthwhile: like intravenous drug usage, or the selling of Black-Market handbags. <3

Day 2: Desperation (already)

I’m sad to report that I’ve been struggling with the no-sweets deal. In fact, I probably should’ve clarified the No Goodies list before I began… because since Holy Day, I’ve had animal crackers, fruit snacks, and Twizzlers. I know. I mean, these are all things that could be deemed sweets, but I guess I had more of a no-cake-cookies-or-ice-cream thing in mind. I’ve been getting grief from those around me. That’s the thing with abstinence (from anything). It’s not just pressure from yourself you deal with, daily, but the pressure of those around you, prodding and poking like they’ve never tried to give up anything before. This is why I fail over and over again with the smoking crap, among other silly habits (hair-twirling, saying “psyche” after things–I stopped, I swear…etc).

I’m not good with pressure. I’d like to say I’m one of those cats who holds her own under a deadline or habit-breaking, but to the contrary, I crumble like a boneless otter. Bah. To compensate for my lack of “sweets,” I’ve begun gorging on my meals, eating seconds (even thirds). From past posts, we realize this is nothing new. I get in phases where I need to eat until I want to puke. Plus, I think knowing that I can’t do something is making me want to do it. Classic, right?
Due to this whole thing, I’ve been aimlessly making laps through the kitchen with x-ray vision, imagining all the goodies my shelves contain, as if they were going to pop out and jump down my throat. I wish. It’s fine, though. I mean, the only time I really crave chocolate is… who am I kidding? I crave it all the time. Bad, Chicken.
So yesterday, which was Day 2, I thought I had found the loophole. I pretty much thought I was brilliant. Chocolate Mini Wheats.
Teesh, probably feeling cheated by her own chocolate-depravation, caught me “left-handed”–as my coworker’s kid called it one day. Obviously, I made the rules, so I decided right then and there that I was allowed chocolate cereal. The first bites felt a little like heaven. Pathetic.
I refused to stop then. I devoured biscuit after biscuit as she scolded me. I even poured myself a glass of milk. In my defense, it is cereal. And though Teesh wasn’t having it, I just kept screaming the same desperate line over and over:
I guess that’s the end of my tale. Sadly, Teesh and I were at odds for the rest of the night and we ended up tackling each other, then boxing. Boxing. It’s a new hobby in our house. Sort of like Fight Club. That’ll be saved for the next entry.
So long, kids. <3

40 days… and nights, I guess.

In lieu of my friends’ journeys into Lent season (crazy Catholics), I’ve decided to test my willpower. I mean, Jesus and I aren’t necessary homeboys, but it’s sort of for me, you know? When I was younger, I was more interested in greasy, salty foods (see below), but these days, I’m way into sweets. In fact, I’d choose ice cream over the lives of most people. Ha. Not really, but you get the idea.

Anyhow, today begins my journey into non-sweet-land. It’s like the opposite of Candyland. Sounds like hell to me, but why not? It’s not like I couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds, help my diet a bit. I just wonder how close I’ll get to the edge, especially when those mencies come.

Wish me luck, kiddies! And to those of you riding the Lent train, what did you give up? Oh, and good luck!

Eat Like Good Friends Do

Believe it or not, there are better things in life than friends who love you endlessly, support you when you need them most and would give the shirt off of their back for you. (Has anyone ever had to apply that theory?)

Friends that eat. A lot. With you.

Now, since I was a young one, I loved food. I might be downplaying this a bit. I didn’t just love food. I had a relationship with food. I married food. My dad was old-school Italian to the max, feeding anyone who stopped by. Every kid on the block had their run-ins with dad. And if you were thin, look out. This was a sign that you were malnourished, and he might just ask you to eat (over and over again), until you finally caved. This was his tactic.

And I was a mischievous, though naive, tomboy with an affinity for Legos, Barbies (whaaa?) and Happy Meals. Imagine a parent (or parental unit) who would fulfill your every food whim–no matter the time of day, the cost or the sincere inconvenience. I had a double cheeseburger at 11 AM, a pizza-parlor style Italian hoagie at 3 PM and then perhaps a heaping plate of spaghetti for dinner. It didn’t stop there; depending on the evening, I might have had French-fried potatoes around 10 PM, or an MTO from Sheetz with a side of Combos. Listen, I’m pretty sure my dad made up the Taco Bell term “fourth meal.” Often, there were fifths, sixths. And if you weren’t hungry, he would ask you until you were, until you were pretty sure you were, at least.

You hungry? How about a Chalupa? Tacos?

Want a Twister? Get you an MTO, if you want?

I’ll get you 20. As long as you eat it.

Hoagie? Sub? Whatever the hell those things are. Want one?

Oooh, I could go for an entire dozen of donuts. Whaddya say?

Boston Cream? Chocolate Frosted? Glaaazed?

C’mon, Animal. You haven’t eaten for an hour.

Between then and now, I have worked hard at losing weight, overcoming about 70-75 lbs. total. It wasn’t easy. I choose salads and grilled chicken. I stay away from mayo and ranch dressing. Making healthy choices is the EASY part. The hard part is the portions, right? Just because I can eat vegetables and prepare my own overly-vinegary salad dressing doesn’t mean I don’t have the FFK appetite. FFK = Former Fat Kid. Though I can keep it in-check most often, I allow myself a day a week to treat myself. This is when having hungry, good-eatin’ friends make all the difference.

I tend to attract (even find attractive) those who can stand up to my appetite. There is nothing worse than going out with someone who picks at their meals, uses take-home boxes and/or claims they are full after what just may be a ONE PERSON PORTION. I spit at that person. For example, my string bean roommate Adam, who considers eating two plates of food at the Panda Buffet “a lot.” (Must I also verify that these “plates of food” consist of 2-3 items, hardly generous.) I remember being unsure of his presence in my life just from this fact.

So yesterday I decide it is time for my weekly pork-out. I put on a pair of loose jeans, a brightly-colored sports bra and refused to brush my hair. This was my moment. Because my friends and I (we’ll call them Teesh & Queen) were already in the Pittsburgh area–the only “adults” without a child visiting the Carnegie Science Center, we decided to eat there. Since none of us had been to Fat Heads on the South Side, it sounded like a nice choice. 4:21 PM.

By the time we skidded through lanes of confused traffic, soggy afternoon drunks in green t-shirts and found an actual parking spot. (In Pittsburgh, we like to “make up” parking spots.), we arrived at our destination, tummies rumbling and ready. And then the heart-drop. How long of a wait? 45 minutes, the attractive, hipster at the counter tells us. FORTY-FIVE MINUTES?! When you’re ravished, 45 minutes might as well be tomorrow. But I turned to see my friends optimistic, shrugging at this seemingly impossible wait.

“Eh, anywhere we go will be crowded, you know?” Right. They were right, logical even. But can we just try, I wanted to ask. There is no logic in hunger. Instead of whining my concern aloud, I puffed up my chest and gave the host my name. 45 minutes. I could occupy my brain for 45 minutes. 4:50 PM.

Time passes at an incredibly slow pace. I doodle. I draw pictures of unicorns and cats and gerbils in plastic balls. It’s fine. Everything is going to be ok, because I know after each doodle, I’m just 1 majestic unicorn away from food. Right.

I’m going to skip to the part to where we actually get a seat, because the dull time in between could be painful to read. But it was nearly an hour (or more) before we actually got waited on, about 6:15 PM. The waitress, bubbly and smiling, brought us our waters. Had she been psychic and could comprehend our subsequent pain, she may not have asked the question…

Can I get you ladies an appetizer?

At this point, we were drooling. Our stomachs had caved in on themselves like raisins. And though we were not starving in a literal sense, the anticipation induced by the unordinary wait time gave us a near-death sensation. So when we heard appetizer, a word, which, in fact, means “before meal,” the question hit us as FOOD RIGHT NOW? And we accepted the offer. Obviously.

While it wasn’t the waitress’s fault, I mean, we could’ve picked something smaller like their Arrogant Onion Rings or something, but we chose Pedro’s Nachos. To put it lightly, this mound of nachos could’ve fed four people as a meal. In silence, other than a few satisfied groans we shared, we devoured it. In fact, we would’ve won an award. The waitress in a moment of shock exclaimed she had never seen a plate of their nachos disappear so quickly.

At this moment, it would also be safe to note that we had no idea what was ahead of us. I believe our stomachs were most likely already full, but we didn’t believe it. Though this should have clued us in, those nachos were just an appetizer. We had burgers and fish sandwiches coming. French fries. Yes. And we had no idea how big these things would be. The prices were reasonable, cheap, in fact. I could imagine anything extraordinary. Boy, was I wrong.

Our reactions were as follows: excited, stunned, worried. But we continued to plow on, as though we hadn’t just ingested nearly 2 lbs. of nachos a piece. It was ok, because it was delicious. It was sooooo goooooood.

Needless to say, the car ride home was a long one. 45 minutes, in fact. And besides the grunts and moans of pain and discomfort, there was a strange intermission of laughter, like we were in some unfortunate food delirium. It was disbelief coupled with pain coupled with disbelief at our pain. Laughter wasn’t the end-all-be-all. All ups have their downs, and suddenly we were pressed with painful, uncontrollable gas, (which then, of course,  resulted in more laughter and more discomfort.) It was a deadly loop of downhill spiraling that ended with the three of us passed out on the couch.