Today’s post was supposed to be List updates.
Instead, it’s an iRant.
Why, you ask?
Because I was betrayed by someone very dear to me.
It all started when I went to Chik-fil-A for lunch.
Now, I’m what you might call a bit of a health nut. My standard fare for lunch typically includes rice, vegetables, and some kind of meat, like chicken breast or ground turkey. Food is fuel, and if you put bad fuel into your tank, your engine runs like shit. I lift weights four days a week, and run the remaining three, so if I eat like shit I’m going to feel it in my lifts or my runs.
That said, I do love me a good cheat meal.
My top go-to for a cheat meal is Taco Bell. Where else are you going to get over 2000 calories worth of food for under $20? I love going there, ordering a shit ton of food, then sitting there and eating it all while cashiers and customers alike look at me with disgust.
Yes, I wash it down with diet soda. I don’t need all that extra sugar.
My other go-to for a cheat meal is Chik-fil-A.
The thing about Chik-fil-A is, while you’re not getting anywhere near as much food as you’d get at Taco Bell, you’re getting consistently good service. Half the time I already have my food in my hands before I finish paying. You’ll never get that kind of speed at Taco Bell.
Anyway, this past Thursday, I decided to go to Chik-fil-A for lunch.
My coworkers have been talking about this new Jalapeño Ranch Club sandwich that Chik-fil-A has. It’s basically just a chicken sandwich with bacon, jalapeño peppers, and some kind of spicy ranch sauce. As somebody with acid reflux, this is the last thing I should probably be eating.
Of course, this didn’t stop me. I figured I would tolerate the little tummy ache later and be fine.
Well, I wasn’t.
The trouble started later that afternoon as I went for my 6 mile run. At around mile 4, I felt a rumbling in my stomach. Figuring it was that jalapeño sandwich doing its thing, I ignored it and continued my run.
By the time I reached mile 6, it felt like Eren Yeager himself was in my stomach unleashing a hoard of colossal titans upon my intestines.
I made it inside and sat on the toilet, expecting an earth-shattering kaboom that would blow out my sphincter.
Nothing.
I let out a wicked fart, but other than that, nothing. Where’s the kaboom? There’s supposed to be an earth-shattering kaboom!
I went about my night, getting some work done on title cards for the new AJnet Magazine. Aside from some very nasty farts that could probably KO a herd of rhinos, there was nothing.
Until the middle of the night, when I woke up pissing out of my ass.
I spent the entire next day (Friday) with my stomach in knots, showing my toilet no mercy like I was a student at Cobra Kai. Any time I tried to eat or drink something, it came right out the other end like a Super Soaker. Not one of those sad excuses for Super Soakers that they sell now, I’m talking about the ones we grew up with in the 80’s and 90’s that could probably qualify as pressure washers. My bunghole was firing at 2,000 PSI.
Figuring I wasn’t going to get much done, I lied down on the couch with my girlfriend and we watched the new Malcolm in the Middle miniseries (which was surprisingly good). I followed that up with an hour-long nap.
So I get up from my hour’s nap and unload my bowels for about the 10,000th time, then I make my way back to the couch for more napping.
I made it to the living room before I realized something was wrong.
I started to feel light-headed, the room began spinning, and suddenly the four steps left to the couch seemed like four miles. My girlfriend saw something was wrong, and got up to guide me to the couch. I crash-landed on the couch and decided to sleep it off.
Except, that’s not what actually happened.
I thought I made it to the couch. So when I awoke to my girlfriend standing over me screaming “Can you hear me?!” over and over, I was confused and annoyed. I fired back with “Yes, yes! Why the fuck are you yelling at me?”
As it turns out, I was laying on the floor next to the couch. According to my girlfriend, she tried to get me to the couch, but my knees buckled and I went down. She wasn’t able to stop me from falling, but she was able to guide my fall so I didn’t hit the wooden coffee table, saving me from clocking myself in the head.
After laying on the floor drenched in sweat, we agreed that it was probably best if I went to bed. So I crawled my way to bed, where I spent the next 15 hours fluctuating between having chills and being hot, punctuated by the Hershey squirts, which by this point were yellow.
I spent Saturday resting, hydrating, and trying to eat. Water, Gatorade, electrolyte powders, sourdough toast, ramen, bananas, everything seemed to just liquefy upon entering my system and come firing out of my butthole.
Sunday rolled around, and, while I was still feeling like shit, I tried to get up and at least do stuff in my house. As I was washing dishes, I started to feel lightheaded again, like I did on Friday. Thankfully I didn’t pass out this time.
At this point, my girlfriend was demanding I seek medical attention. I could write a whole separate rant about my negative experiences with doctors and the health care system in general, but that’s irrelevant here. She wasn’t going to let up until I saw a professional about this. To her credit, having diarrhea for several days after eating a chicken sandwich isn’t normal.
$100 and 30 minutes later, the urgent care is telling me there’s nothing they can do for me there, and that I should go to the ER.
An hour after that, and I’m in the ER being drip-fed fluids from a fucking IV:
They also did bloodwork and an EKG. Results showed I was severely dehydrated, no doubt from the fact that I was literally shitting everything out as soon as it entered my system. No verdict as to what exactly this illness was, which to be fair, they’d probably have to test me for, and by the time they got the results it would have already passed through me.
I have yet to receive the bill for this visit, but I’m sure it’s going to be the financial equivalent of Mandingo ramming his large black python up my still-tender blown-out asshole.
It’s been four days, and I’m still shitting my brains out. I don’t know if this is the flu, food poisoning, norovirus, a parasite, or what.
I just know that I feel very let down by one of my favorite restaurants for making me this sick. I expected this from McDonald’s or Arby’s, but never my beloved Chik-fil-A. Never in my fucking life did I think a chicken sandwich from Chik-fil-A would lead to a case of diarrhea so severe that it required an IV to replenish my fluids.
What next, is Taco Bell going to give me E. coli?
The moral of this story is, fuck Chik-fil-A and fuck their Jalapeño Ranch Club sandwich. 0/10, would not recommend.
As for that List update, don’t worry, that’ll be Thursday. If I’m not dead by then.
