Please do not let that low throbbing feeling be your way of telling me me you're getting sick. I have a date on Friday (my birthday yay), and if you insist on being uncooperative I will stuff you full of Pepto-Bismol and go anyways. I will even put on the ridiculously corset-like Little Black Dress, just to spite you.
If you do not stop aching right the fuckdammnit now I will bang you against a wall until you stop. Yes, I know I'm not being as nice to you as I was to Stomach. That's because you've been getting me into trouble lately. (Why the hell would you forget that the car keys were in the fruit basket anyway, huh?)
Please don't give up on me now. I'm typing possibly the best thesis I have ever done and you are not helping by twinging the way you do. You wanna go see Mr. D the wonderful massage therapist? Ok, we'll go see Mr. D the wonderful massage therapist. Just don't die on me before Friday. I will bribe you with a manicure.