I have guinea pigs living inside my stomach.
Not for real. But it is the best explanation I have to date. Allow me to elaborate.
I have some guinea pigs who like to hang out in my stomach: an army, if you will. They’re equipped with knives, swords, and their little claws. The stomach guinea pigs are a generally peaceful people, but for some inexplicable reasons: random foods, random smells, random nothingness; they wage war on my stomach.
They’ve come to some terms of peace in recent months. They used to have small battles with my stomach nearly every day, but now they seem to need more provoking.
Allow me to describe what an average guinea pig battle is like.
The guinea pigs, naturally, begin to violently attack my stomach with their claws and knives, probably fully intending to destroy it. Mrs. Grouch (the esteemed name for my tummy, bestowed by my friend, Pineapples) begins to retaliate because, well, my stomach doesn’t want to die. Mrs. Grouch then proceeds to try and kill the guinea pigs in a variety of ways. She may compress them like a waffle iron, or compact them into a cube like trash, or wring them out like a dish cloth.
Now, as you can imagine, this could be a bit distracting for a teenager trying to live out her day. I mean, when you have murderous guinea pigs living inside you, its sometimes hard to carry on your life. Unless I have a visible look of pain, no one knows that there’s a civil war going on in my tummy. A room of people, and I look like everyone else. I just don’t feel like everyone else.
There’s other fun contingencies that go along with these in-house guinea pigs, but I haven’t gotten a fun way to describe them yet. I promise I’ll write you all when I do.
So go forth, my readers, and thank God that you don’t have guinea pigs. Or, thank God even if you do. Because He still works, even through pain, sickness, and trouble.