Probably My Grossest Post Yet

At the time of this writing, my 18th birthday is tomorrow, which happens to be a Saturday. Fate, being the fickle mistress that she is, has apparently decided that the best way to celebrate my coming-of-age is to beat the ever-loving hell out of me via a bout of the stomach flu. Rather than make a post elaborating on my total incompetence at being an adult, as I originally intended, I'm going to talk about poop. Which, in a way, does more to elaborate on my incompetence than an actual dedicated post could ever hope to achieve.

In my defense, stomach flu-poop is really quite fascinating.

So for the last few days, my stomach has felt like it's been hosting a UFC cage match; one in which everybody is equipped with chainsaws that they're constantly jamming into the walls of my stomach because they hate me (my more devout readers will notice this is the second time in a row that I've used UFC cage matches to illustrate something. I have no excuse other than the fact that it's an effective comparison). I've been violently nauseous and I haven't been able to eat anything for fear of pissing off my metaphorical stomach fighters. But yesterday morning, something felt different.

Something jolted me out of my sleep. It was still dark inside, and all was silent in my house. I wasn't sure what exactly had woken me up; what I was aware of was the fact that my stomach didn't feel like it was on fire. After several seconds of continued non-pain, I sank into a deep cushion of happiness and tranquility. At last, I thought. The war has ended. I smiled, snuggling deep into my pillow. I let my guard down.

That was my fatal mistake.

"YOU GOIN' DOWN, MUHFUCKA."

I felt a subtle shifting somewhere within my lower intestines. Huh. That felt weird. It was unexpected, sure, but I quickly dismissed it as hunger-rumblings due to the fact that I hadn't eaten in a few days. Oh well, back to sleep, I thought lazily. Unfortunately for me, about 3 seconds later, that subtle shifting had evolved into an intestinal earthquake, and I was quickly aware that something was very, very wrong.

Oh God oh God oh God bathroom bathroom I need the bathroom WHY IS MY MOM IN THE BATHROOM OH NO. I was running out of time. I simply couldn't wait for my mom to finish whatever she was doing and, in a panic, I rushed to the downstairs bathroom, my stomach violently protesting the entire time.

Here's the thing. I think that, for almost everyone, there's a room in their house that they just don't like being in. Maybe it's creepy, or it smells funny, or it's where their grandma keeps her doll collection and they all seem to stare at you with their empty doll-eyes the moment you enter the room because you have a soul and they just want to RAPE IT SILLY. 

Ahem.

For me, that unwanted room has always been my downstairs bathroom. It's this dingy little yellowed room with broken tiles and bugs everywhere. I've lived in my house for nearly 9 years and I have yet to use that bathroom without watching a spider or an ant or a goddamn centipede crawl across the floor. 

YOU DON'T BELONG IN HOUSES CENTIPEDE. GO AWAY. 

Unfortunately, I was in a desperate situation, so without hesitation, I hurdled into the bathroom, slammed the door shut and sat myself down on the toilet. This is normally the part where I describe, with the use of colorful adjectives and brilliant imagery, exactly what it felt like when I finally unleashed that most stupendous of bowel movements upon that poor, unsuspecting toilet. In this case, however, I feel that less is more, so I'll try to say it as succinctly and concisely as possible:

I shotgun-shat christmas colors.

Seriously you guys, I could cut my arm off and it wouldn't be as bloody as my poop was. After 10 minutes of agonizing geyser-shitting, the inside of my toilet looked like one of Hannibal Lecter's more disturbing wet dreams. To take your mind off of that disgusting imagery, here are some unrelated pictures.

Haha! I'm just kidding. They're all related.