The eighteen hour flight crossing the Pacific Ocean must've messed up more than my internal clock. I am not sure how this is possible because I have been eating non-stop ever since I walked off the plane. My father has been cooking up full breakfast, a full lunch and a full guilt trip every night.
I have been trying to come up with a word for this. "Shitlag" seems inadequate, but it's all I can come up with. I need something more sophisticated, something that can travel well, cross cultural boundaries. I want it to be the new catchphrase among the jet set. I want Paris Hilton to have the right word to use when she has this temporary irregularity.
Shitlag is not constipation. It is simply the lack of an urge to take a dump. I have sat on the pot to see if I could get it going, but after fifteen minutes, all I got were dry farts. It is very unnerving. Like, tell me, what was the longest you have gone without taking a dump? It made me question everything, the Meaning of Life; the Existence of Heaven; whether it is BYOB in Hell.
On Day Three, while in a restaurant, I told my mother that the shit was imminent, we had to leave. I cannot possibly use a public toilet; the explosion could be dangerous, people could get caught in the fallout.
But when I got home, nothing came. A false contraction. I felt embarrassed. I wonder if this is what pregnant women feel like when they are sent home?
I wondered if during the flight over here, I had somehow achieved nirvana. My body has ascended to the next plane and is now efficiently converting all I consume directly into energy--I no longer had to do the two. The shit transforms into energy and the energy emanates from my body, bringing to the world peace, goodwill and an otherworldly fashion sense...
Day Five: The shit has landed. There goes world peace...
This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here: