THE CLOCK ticks to 12 noon as my stomach grumbles for its feeding time, each fleeting second--it complains even louder. I try to remember why it's been acting this way, like a spoiled child who can't wait for its birthday present and therefore nags for attention; only mine demands for it. I can almost feel the acid rising up, ready to burn my insides, preparing to squeeze any organ it gets a hold of which will ultimately make me grit in freaking suffering, and later pathetically whimper in pain.