Acid reflux isn’t sexy
Acid reflux isn’t sexy, in case anyone didn’t know.
In my wildest fantasies, I don’t sit broodingly across a table in an obscenely expensive restaurant watching as Jake Gyllenhaal nervously uncorks a bottle of wine, only to clear my throat as he begins to pour me a glass and say ‘I’m sorry, not for me, I’ve got aggressive stomach acid’. I guess that exchange could be done with more elegantly placed smoke and mirrors, but subtlety really isn’t my best quality - and the truth would fall out of my mouth somehow. I’d also like to note that it took me slightly too long to decide whether I should use Jake Gyllenhaal or Mads Mikkelsen as an example, like the prospect of going to dinner with either of them was a real life problem that I needed to provide with a real life solution.
I digress into oblivion. Nevertheless, my inability to keep my stomach acid under control is not cool. About eighty percent of the time the problem lies dormant, not bothering me in the slightest, but that twenty percent of time is pretty much padded out with constant moaning, a banquet of bland food that makes me want to gag and dealing with the guilt of having to be that one annoying person that can’t eat a takeaway that everyone else wants. I’m aware this isn’t a particularly interesting subject but, for some reason, I actually quite like writing about mundanity. Slow Thriller is so thrilling. Maybe I just need to get the mundane out of my system, you know, mine for gold a little bit. Get into it.
Probably the worst moment for me when I’m hit with bouts of stomach eating acid is having to go shopping. I have to attempt a quick ninja operation, in and out with my bland foods when, more than anything, I want to walk around in a trance thinking about what delicious things I want to eat. Recently, as I grabbed my wholemeal bread and bananas, I looked around in manic desperation. I could hear the cheese aisle beckon me, with it’s strong, crumbly cheddar and it’s soft, velvety, garlic Boursin. I have a very unhealthy obsession with cured meats, a complete sucker for saltiness and I was dreaming of these sandwiches I make; crusty thick-cut bread, lathered with mayo and layered with hastily cut cheddar, salty prosciutto and the sweetest, crunchiest plum tomatoes I can find. I am torturing myself. I am sitting her salivating like a complete idiot. I don’t know how food writers do it. I mean, even then, I was walking around the shops salivating, dreaming of shoving cheese into my mouth.
This was all before I had to run past the cake aisle. My imagination went into overdrive, I started to think I would do anything to be in Bruce Bogtrotters shoes. To feel that rich, spongy, chocolate on my tongue. Has anyone else literally ached for cake? I feel like I’m really letting you into the inner workings of my psyche right now, which is embarrassing because it’s mostly about self-doubt and cake. I’m not as mysterious as I make out... I’m just an idiot who will go after a sandwich for a weeks worth of pain.