Cast iron stomach (rusted)

I’ve got – or at least used to have – a cast iron stomach. I could eat pretty much anything and the most it did was give me a bit of gas.

No, you’re not getting it. One fine evening, while in Honduras, one of the meals for service was chicken. Roughly a quarter of the camp ate it instead of the other choices. Roughly a quarter of the camp spent the next few days with ugly food poisoning – projectile launches, both ways. I ate that chicken. I did a LOT of farting and (sour) belching for about 12 hours, but that was pretty much it.

This wasn’t the only time in my life where I had similar experiences, so I’m… well, on with yesterday.

Yesterday, I had my first day of grand jury duty. (Yay, and no I won’t discuss it beyond saying it’s actually rather interesting.) For lunch I decided to go to the chinese restaurant for the buffet – never been there, generally like Chinese, no big deal.

I really should have followed my first instinct and left when the place seemed a bit dingy. Or the second, when I bit into the not-quite-lukewarm sesame chicken. Or the third, when spring roll had a metallic taste. Yeah, you can guess where this is going.

Not too long after dismissal of the jury for the day, I was miserable. I actually vomited a few times during the night, and this morning got to use the other end. I’m not as tough as I used to be.

Cast iron rusts. sigh.


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