As the days wore on, the anger grew. Out of desperation, they made a quick decision and put our house of 14 years house on the market. It sold in three days. About a month and a half later, we left our cute and cozy home. We had been living in a neighborhood known for rich old farts that didn't spend a dime, welfare mamas, alcoholics, drug dealers, unattended children running wild in the street, and immigrant Mexicans.
Forced to leave my habitat -- my home! -- we settled into rich suburbia. Now, instead of a house, we had a town home, sandwiched between others that looked all the same. A lot of the time when my mom drove by, she'd pass it, thinking it was the wrong
So here I am, missing my precious 'hood, trying to get used to looking at arrogant, hoity-toity white-collared folks; women wearing pointy dress boots and geeky men wearing high-water slacks with big white shoes -- people who are health freaks, and very over-protective of their children. Now I don't mean just simple diet and exercise freaks -- I mean they go for the full enchilada. Jogging in almost subzero temperature with heart/pulse monitors attached. Wearing an entire spandex biker outfit when jogging or biking. One time I seen a guy running with ski poles... I almost shit my pants laughing.
The thing that struck me the most were the cars they drove. I came from looking at beat-up woody family station wagons -- if there was a nice car in my town, we'd assume they were either old or drug dealers. But here in Pleasantville, there were BMWs, Mercedes', and one time I saw a Hummer. I asked my mom what the hell that was, and she said it was a vehicle that could go underwater. Now who in the hell would need something like that?
They even talked different than our blue-collared folks. Instead of hearing "$@%&$", we heard, "oh my, that is just splended."
With all these changes going on, and all the emotions I was experiencing, I was a mental mess. They say that your stomach is like a second brain -- I now believe that's true.
My stomach changed. Here in suburbia, I could no longer drop a normal, healthy shit. The restaurants here were terrible -- I'd either throw up or take a quick, greasy country splat after eating. During the day I would let out hard bite-sized hamster pellets. I never felt like I was done -- it was always like I had a turd hanging in my ass that wouldn't come out. Or diarrhea.
It always seemed to hit me when I was out shopping. I would go out of my way to walk a block from the strip mall to blow ass in the Arby's that had single bathrooms -- I need my privacy.
Pizza was a big no-no. My mom and I went to eat at one of those chain pizza places. We ordered a Canadian Bacon pizza with pineapple. It was gross -- the crust was thin and soggy. I mean, you could bend this pizza in fours and it wouldn't break. I should've known better, but I was hungry, so I wolfed it down.
As we were walking out the door, I suddenly felt like the big blueberry chick from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I am medium-sized, but I felt like I gained an extra gut or two. I thought I could fart to get the bloating down, so I tried, and this liquid shit came flying out like a damn rocket taking off, soaking my pants, running down my thighs.
I didn't say anything to my mom about it. We hopped into the car, and got lucky as I sat down on the leather interior -- it didn't stink. When we got home I got up and the seat was wet from my nasty ass. She asked me what happened and I had to tell her.
It's been six months since we moved. It's so bad that I lost 15 pounds without even trying, because my smoking and my shot nerves make me throw up after I eat. I don't get diarrhea any more, but I can barely shit. I don't know what my problem is, but I hope it goes away soon. I miss my old neighborhood.