It means you roll over the bed probing the position you feel the least amount of pain and in that internal search for stomach-centered meaninglessness, you lose sleep and get up feeling cranky, and then your mum asks you why you have been in the toilet for so long. Have a good day.
It means you can’t sit up straight and fall into a variety of ergonomically ill-advised sketches.
It means you want to compress your stomach, and almost entirely your worldview, into a ball.
It means eating curd, cold, is like rubbing ointment on a wound.
It means your stomach is in a feverish solitude until your back’s perverse need to get involved in the pain and one-up the stomach on its big day. See marriage.
It means giving your burp its own sense of consciousness.
It means you refuse to lie down because you want to stay productive, the sexual repression of the stomach, but you produce nothing, and the persisting ennui, a combination of sleep deprivation and inefficiency, makes you believe something deep is going to come out of this, and so you endure, perpetually, unflatteringly.
It means going through the false positives of bowel movements.
It means this: to pretend everything’s okay with you, the fundamental failure of which results in the mortification of having to go through with saying out loud, the word gas.