Plop, plop, fizz, fizz. Tums and vodka?

I'm tired. Just home from work. It's 7:30 and CAB (the fabulous Cook And Bartender I married a few years ago) picked up dinner from El Maguey tonight. I didn't have lunch except the espresso I got from the bookstore on my way home at 7.

I've promised myself and my writer's group to blog at least ten minutes each day (as writers we must write. right?) but I'm pretty sure I can't do it for ten today. My stomach is burning like there is a little pointy star inside. And not a flat one, but one of those round ball stars like you'd hang on a Christmas tree. And it feels like the star has burst through my stomach in several spots and it is shooting burning hot rays through toward my neck and my belly button and my back and my hips and my eyes. It hurts to breathe at the moment too because my jeans are squishing this starbelly of mine and I'd like to unbutton them but I try to avoid looking like Homer on most days. CAB has diagnosed the starbelly as a result of combining no food since 8AM with three shots of espresso at 7PM with chip-scoops of what appeared to be sloppy joes mixed with cheese from the Mexican restaurant, with vodka, cranberry juice and lime. He may be on to something.

I'm going to look for more Tums.