I’m fairly positive that I have multiple personality disorder, because I heard the multiple voices yelling at me all at the same time yesterday… and they were all in my head.
Sundays are normally crappy days for my stomach. The poor guy just seems to get overlooked. The mornings normally consist of anywhere between 3 and 6 hours of church meetings. After church, I’m typically so elated to have nothing to do that I just go home, sit on my butt and enjoy the feeling of doing nothing. Unfortunately, ‘doing nothing’ includes not cooking.
Yesterday, however, my stomach got the best of me. At roughly 4:00 pm, I was snapped out of my semiconscious state by a ridiculously loud growl and pangs of hunger. All I had eaten all day was a cinnamon roll and a glass of chocolate milk, and basically, my stomach was beginning to eat the rest of my body alive.
I dragged my lethargic self off of the couch and threw some frozen ravioli into a pot of boiling water. As I stood there for 7 minutes watching plumes of steam rise from the pot of stuffed pasta. I started to salivate. I couldn’t handle it any longer. I grabbed the pot, and began to dump its contents into the strainer that I had waiting by the sink.
As I poured the scalding raviolis out of the pot, the steam began to envelop the hand that held the strainer.
“Ow!” Said the voice.
“Ow, ow, ow! OOOOOOOW!” It continued as the flesh began to blister. “You should really drop the strainer!”
At this point another voice chimed in. “Nate, it’s almost over, just pour the rest out. You can do it.”
“Ow! Ouch! Drop it dammit!” echoed the first voice.
I kept pouring.
“Almost there… al-most-there….” Said the second voice.
I could endure it no further. My hand was on fire, and I felt like the flesh was about to peel off the bones, shrivel up and combust into a plume of smoke and flames of death. I threw the strainer across the counter and jammed my hand under the cold running water from the kitchen faucet.
It wasn’t till I felt the relief of the cold water that I realized what had just happened. The only reason my hand was burned was because some idiot voice in my head told me to hang on to that freaking strainer, despite the intolerable pain. Where did this guy come from, and how did he beat out the other guy… you know, the one that was announcing the excruciating pain?
It must be the same guy who makes me curious enough to smell the rotten milk in the fridge or someone else’s fart when other people have evacuated the premises. He is very persuasive… even when I know better.
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