On Friday night, I ate an asada taco from the place next to Footsie’s and immediately fell into a paroxysm of hiccups. Particularly spicy food’s been doing this to me for several years now, ever since an ill-fated bowl of mediocre garlic chicken at a West Hollywood Chinese restaurant. Not worth it. The taco was, though.
When I was a kid, hiccups would last a few minutes and I’d try a handful of methods to squelch them before they went away. They last longer now. The taco hiccups kept battering me in seven-second intervals — I slept a few hours and woke up at 6:30 a.m., still wracked. I bent over and drank a glass of water upside-down and that seemed to solve the problem, leaving the pressure of an air bubble somewhere in my chest. At 9:30 a.m., I sneezed as I drove down the 10 to Dan’s house, and the hiccups returned like sitcom in-laws. Miserable, I lay on Dan’s floor and tried to swallow as much air as possible. Another stall. That afternoon, I drank a soda and the bubbles trigged a third attack.
By the end of the day, my throat was sore, my stomach was ruined (sorry about the pizza, stomach) and I was still. Fucking. Hiccuping. They went away, finally, but there’s an uneasy pressure in my chest that’s worrying me. Going to go to the gym now and run very hard and try to knock it out of me.
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