Artists rendering of Karl. Probably. (not)
(apt that he has an asp coming out of his arse though)
So those of you that have been playing along at home can cross off gall stones on your Bingo cards in the wonderful game of NAME KELLEY’S DISEASE!
Clearly I have no fucking idea how to play bingo, but I also don’t know how to play mystery disease either, because MOTY is telling me that it is all in my head and my doctors are all it is something but we have no idea, hey look how PRETTY YOUR INSIDES ARE!
I am almost certain that someone with this much pain should not be so damn fucking clean and shiny inside.
So Karl must be an interior decorator. Or just really neat.
He is hiding in there somewhere, we just haven’t found him yet.
He is not in my stomach.
Or in my gall bladder.
He ain’t hanging around in my oesophagus, nor my duodenum.
But the fucker is making me nauseous all the fucking time, made me lose my love for hot salty fries and margaritas (and all food in general) and when my stomach isn’t a river of bile it is cramping like a motherfucker.
Pain across my back makes me lose my breath which is mighty inconvenient when yelling orders to my minions from my bed where I have taken residence most of the damn time, because Karl is fucking EXHAUSTING and not in the way I want a man to be exhausting me thankyouverymuch.
Jesus Christ on a bike moisturising my feet because omfg my skin is parched fuck you Karl, I am falling apart from this malady. The only light in my day is Bethenny has returned to Real Housewives of New York and there seems to be a fucking storyline for a fucking change can I get an AMEN?!
So my friends, can I ask a favour? Can YOU work out what the fuck is wrong with me? Or, failing that, can you send Karl a big fuck you fuck off?
Thanks in anticipation.