Open Letter to Stomach

Dear Stomach,

You've been good to me.
I know I don't always treat you well.
Sometimes I go all day without providing you with something to digest, occasionally I like to fill your lumen with acidic carbonated beverages. Every now and then do I go and do something especially stupid, like try and crowd surf with you full of day old baked goods.
And you have never shied away from taking one for the team. Sure you have an unfortunate predilection for rejecting certain things, sometimes violently, but you're very good about not holding a grudge once the offending material has been ejected.
The rum is gone, as is the vodka, and also the gin (the final indignation I imagine.) I allow, it was my bad, an asshole move on my part. But it's all been pissed, vomited, or absorbed out. What's left is now the liver's problem. And still you want me to pay for my mistakes. But did you really have to make me bolt for the bathroom in the middle of purchasing my lunch at a local dining establishment? It is not in my best interest, nor yours, to become that intimately acquainted with strange toilets. Or that trashcan near the Faculty Club. Or really any of the half dozen or so spots you've seen fit to empty your contents onto or into within the past 15 hours.
So please, for your benefit and mine, no more.

Thank you,
Eleanore Inc.