Sometimes I think that things that go into me are getting lodged. They are taking up space in my throat pipe. It's like they go down a slide, through a hole, through a hole in the roof, into my stomach house. But as soon as they get going down the slide, they put their hands and feet against the tunneled walls of the slide. They stop. Or so I think. They wedge themselves somewhere in the beginning of my throat. Well then they set up lodgings there. Like it's a loft bed at the top of my stomach house. NO GOOD. I think there is a chunk of potato chip in that lofty throat space right now. I can try to ease it by pouring water down the slide. Try to break it up. Chunkify it, until it all tumbles down to the slippery hardwood floor of the stomach house. This jalapeno chip chunk has got to go!
But maybe I am just plain wrong. Maybe it did end up at the bottom, but as it went down the slide it sort of scratched and clawed its way down. Leaving this lingering bruising and scratching. A reminder of the chunk that got away. Enough of a reminder to feel like it's the actual thing. Who knows. I am going to wash whatever it is down some more. These here food chunks shouldn't be hanging out in my throat space! Nor should they be leaving painful reminders of their journey through said space. BACK TO WORK
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