A public apology to my gallbladder.

Dear angry intestine of mine,

Please forgive me.
Please forgive me for all of the things I've forced you to digest despite the tiny fist sized stone you have blocking your functioning tubes.

Please forgive me for the doughballs stuffed with raspberry and glazed with white icing.
And for my pastry habit.
That coincides with my 7-11 baby bites ritual.
And my bag of popcorn on Monday.
And my Nutella sandwich on Wednesday.
Or my two pastries on Tuesday.
And my pizza on Thursday.
And my beer on Thursday.
And don't forget about the chocolates-for-dessert-here-try-this-it's-Danish I forced you to endure tonight.

And in an effort at full disclosure, since I am in an intestinal confessional, please also forgive me for my daily routine of bananas.

Pasta.  

Granola bars. 

Peanut butter. 

Cookies. 

Juice. 

And milk.

And if you cannot reach into your bile-filled-cavity where a heart could be, please forgive me for the mother-of-all indecencies against you.
Turkey. Covered in bacon. Stuffed with spiced cream cheese. Drizzled with cheese sauce.

I should treat you better, in your sickly state, but I am of the flesh.
And flesh is weak.
And pastries are good.

You have to try and understand, that others betray themselves with hard drugs and prostitutes.
My infractions are so minimal in comparison!

Deeply apologetic,
not-promising-change-in-the-future,
we were born to be together,
Sarah.

p.s.
This is also your eviction notice.
I'm giving you the next three months to live comfortably and then you can find another place to wreck havoc.
LIKE THE BOTTOM OF A TOXIC WASTE BIN IN A HOSPITAL SOMEWHERE.

10:38pm Denmark
4:38pm USA