I’m waiting for it.
12 hours and 28 minutes.
I made wraps for dinner last night. Drizzled and drowned in chilli salsa, smothered in cheese, and stuffed with chicken strips.
It’s not the chilli salsa that is the issue here. It’s that my stomach is directly proportional to that of a cast iron pot. What I ate last night can probably be related to, by some shrink circles, self-destructive behaviour.
I ate chicken that might’ve had salmonella in it.
I’m waiting for the shits. Basically. And/or death by shits.
I bought the chicken breasts on 2 August. The sticker on the top said it should be sold by the 3 August. It didn’t have an ‘eat by’ date, but I swallowed the breasts last night, 7 August. Raw chicken never smells sensational, let’s face it, however I smelt the breasts quite thoroughly, before tossing them in the pan.
I cooked them for an extra 2 minutes, and then devoured them with a whole lot of other shite on top of them, wrapped in a tortilla.
The salmonella was hidden beneath the fine pastry of a tortilla.
I ate, knowing these breasts could kill me. And yet, like how we experiment with drugs, I still wait to see if anything will happen.
Twelve hours 34 minutes. I have a headache. Or do I? I don’t know if I do…ok now I do. I think. Fuck. Can also smell salsa. I think. Fuck.
Food poisoning isn’t nice, and I’m going to be one sorry bitch if I pass my spleen this morning. Or during lunch, or whenever the salmonella starts eating away at my small intestine.
It’s amazing I didn’t wake up to a nauseam delirium last night, as pink elephants grew out of my walls, and I sweated out every nano-millilitre of water my body has ever capacitated.
Last time I had food poisoning, I got lockjaw and I couldn’t move my burning muscles and joints. And my head was in a bucket for two days. I was living in the States, and Ex S warned me not to chow the leftover 3-day old Rice-a-Roni in the fridge.
But I did. Of course.
And the only medication I could afford was Pepto Bismol. Liquid Eno basically.
12 hours 45 minutes.