Continuing with the pig Latin theme (not really, but you know, sounds Latin but is not), today I had my third ever bout of post surgery vomiting up toast.
Time for some back story on toast.
I have had a long enduring love affair with toast. So much so that when I was a child I saw my reflection in a shiny toaster and decided it needed a kiss - and burnt the fuck out of my lips.
When I would come home after school, and this is part of the reason I am fat, I would easily consume 4-6 pieces of marg and honey laden toast before my parents got home. I used to have a fucking toast dance for fucks sake, where I would skip merrily around the kitchen table 12-14 times because I knew that was the amount of time needed to brown those bread bastards up nicely.
Toast and me are like this.
Even just pre surgery it wasn't uncommon for me to have a nightly toast sign off around 8ish. For me eating toast while reading was as natural as breathing.
Toast is the shizzle for this little fat duck.
So, post surgery, I cannot eat toast like I used to. In great beaming mouthfuls where I could barely talk. I have to take tiny little bites like Homer eating the cracker in the Scouts episode.
Even then I still have trouble doing it, since I have had these three bouts of toasty vom. I think I will have to treat the no heel and no crusts as standard from now on. And go the strip method for good - which will force me to have bite sized pieces.
God I miss inhaling toast. I miss it so, so much.
And ... so forth.