I think I had heartburn one time. Spirals of pressure and acidic fire shot up my chest and I thought I was going to die. My girlfriend at the time said that I wouldn't die and that I just had heartburn. She wasn't a doctor, but she was pretty drunk most of the time and seemed to know her stomach ailments. The fact that I really didn't die lends some credence to her diagnosis.
Tonight I know I'm going to die. Death by intestinal gas bubble. Every ten or fifteen minutes I'm doubled over in pain, screaming for any higher power to help me shuffle off this mortal coil. About twenty minutes before the first bend-and-writhe-around-in-pain dance, I let loose with the longest and most satisfying fart of my life. In terms of sound and duration, this was the King of Farts. Little boys everywhere would lay claim to me as their savior had they heard this fart. "O Ring of Fire, we speak your name."
If I bled the lines so well before this started, why did this happen? Certainly no gas could have been left behind when the winds of stink blew through the plains of my bowels. The pain is just horrible. I didn't drink any soda or carbonation between the fart and the first gut bomb; how did the air get in there? Did my ass inhale?
My girlfriend offered to take me to the hospital, but what could they do? The only thing that makes sense to me would be for them to find the bubble and then stick a huge needle in my gut and release the fumes that way. That's not happening. I'll die from not farting before I let that happen.
For the first few attacks, she lovingly held my hand and told me to massage my belly. The resulting blast made her run away and tell me that I'm on my own. So here I sit, my imaginary Internet friends my only source of solace while I wait for my body to explode.
Thanks for letting me share.