the woeful tales of gluten intolerance

I have a post-it note stuck to my table lamp that states: stop eating things you know are bad for you. Big black letters on bright orange paper. Pretty attention grabbing, you’d think.

But what do I do? I go ahead and have bacon-mushroom-fried-egg sandwiches. SANDWICHES. Two of them. Not just one.

I’m not supposed to eat anything with gluten in it, which cuts out everything wheat-based in my diet, along with oats barley rye and a gazillion other cereals/grains. Do you know how expensive gluten-free stuff is? Thank god I’m Chinese and love eating rice and kway teow and bee hoon. But yeah, so gluten anything is a no-no, and I go eat 4 slices of wholewheat bread – which is 4 times the amount I’m not supposed to eat, which means it is 4 times infinity of my wrongness.

And now I suffer the indigestive consequences 6 hours after I stuffed them down my gullet. The boyfriend has been called upon to buy me fizzy drinks on his way back from I-don’t-know-where in hope that the acid levels (enough to dissolve your teeth!) will break down all that gunk in my rumbling tum.

I really ought to learn my lessons and eat proper things, things that I know will not be bad for me. I am much too greedy for my own good.