Burn, Baby, Burn

If it's true what they say that heartburn is an indicator of your baby having hair, then I must be birthing Curious George, because at this point I am popping Tums like Amy Winehouse at a methadone clinic. It all started one night after a binge at a local Pizza Hut (see previous post for the full effect) when the depths of Hell took over my respiratory system as I stood shooting milk straight from the carton in front of the fridge at 2 in the morning. Thinking that my punishment for eating the sweet, cheesy deliciousness that is the Cheesestick is over, I opt for a lesser offense on my next meal- a Turkey Sandwich. The fire rages on and I am defeated once again- by a friggin' Turkey Sandwich! But heartburn, you have picked on the wrong person this time (cue Braveheart theme song), because I am a fighter. And I will not be defeated by your raging hellfire that is fated to separate me from my beloved Italian cuisine or the delicate chocolaty dish known as the "Thunder from Downunder." So bring it, Heartburn, and prepare to be faced with one fat appetite equipped with a 350 count bottle of Tums with a backup of a pint of milk. And then we'll see who goes down in flames.