I would like to state, for the record, that there is nothing i hate more then diarrhea. No ailment is more abhorrent to me. No affliction, no disease. I'd rather have a face full of zits on prom night. I'd rather projectile vomit at a state dinner. On a scale of one to ten, one being manage-ably annoying (Heidi Klum for instance) and ten being Soul Crushing Brutality (Everybody Loves Raymond!), then diarrhea = Hitler. That's right, i hate diarrhea with the same white hot burning intensity i usually reserve for genocidal landscape painters. Needless to say, the past week of my life, spent chained to my bathroom as i have been, will be remembered in the little personal history of Brenden Shucart as a lower intestinal holocaust.
It was bad. So bad in fact that Saturday night my auto-pilot kicked in and called my friend kevin to take me to the hospital. I have a truly top notch auto-pilot. Honed by years of black out drinking and other forms of over-consumption, it has an almost supernatural ability to get me home and into my bed unscathed. Even from other countries (yes. my auto-pilot has saved me from mexico). And though my nights of frat quality binge drinking are well behind me my auto-pilot remains, a synaptic guardian angel guiding me home when the party is over (if only for me. thank you Auto-Pilot, thank you for everything).
This past Saturday Auto saved me ass again. A perfect storm of dehydration, malnutrition, and high fever had me talking to dead relatives in my bedroom. And my little auto-pilot took maters into its little ninja hands long enough to call out to my friend kevin for help. I know why it picked kevin too, he gets shit done. He's like raw will dipped in caffeine. Explosive and unstoppable. He hoped in a cab scooped me up and whisked me to the emergency room in less then a half an hour (i'm told. I don't really remember anything between the dead relatives and the ER). So if not for him i might be all Rose Kennedy right now. Thank you kevin.
Fuck you Diarreha.