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It started innocuously enough: a few diahrettic episodes here & there, a maismic nausea hanging over my day.  And then, slowly, I began putting the pieces together: a calculating look whenever I placed an order, a strange malevolence to the way in which my meal was placed at my table.

Slowly, surely, the stains on my underwear began to take the shape of the rising sun.

Now, I don’t know whether this attempt on my life was born of xenophobic anger, or whether O-bun is, in fact, a celebration of anal fissures, but this fecal waterfall has flowed, uninterrupted, since I set foot on this cursed soil.  I’ve desecrated every bathroom I’ve set foot in, I’ve blown ass in every bath house.

Presently, I would kill for an anvo & chee on whole wheat.



  1. anvo?

  2. Anvo. Actually, I meant to say “avo,” as in, “avocado.”

    Turns out, what I /really/ want is some serious Mexican food– the kind so spicy that it makes you hiccup. So spicy that you use up more napkins (another thing this country doesn’t believe in) blowing your nose than you do cleaning your hands. Most importantly, so spicy, that six hours later, you /know/ why you’re feeling so goddamn sick.

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