June 27, 2007
Discomfort Food
It's been a long evening. I went to class, sucked down two cups of coffee from the little on-campus coffeeshop, and fought to stay awake.
Before this all gets started, be advised that I have discovered that said coffee gives me an abysmal case of the farts. Like, near-constant. If there weren't breaks in classes my intestinal tract would explode from gaseous pressure.
So I finally got out, managed to catch the bus at a decent time, and arrived near home, pretty tired and slightly hungry. On our streetcorner? Hey, Taco Bell! So I figured "Oh, fuck it, I'll just grab something easy." I went up to the window, ordered a Mexican Pizza, and sat at a table to enjoy it. I ate relatively quickly, because I just wanted to get home. I tossed the packaging in the trash and started the half-mile walk home.
Five minutes later, I felt like I had been punched in the fucking stomach. The cheap Mexican fast food had mixed with the fart-inducing coffee to form a churning mass of sheer hell in my intestines. I quickly realized that I was fucked, as most of the stores with public restrooms were closing, and I still had a fair ways to go. My brain kicked into overdrive. 'Do I run? No, because if I run, that will jostle the contents of my stomach and guarantee that I shit my pants. Oh, dear Jesus, this hurts.' So I did the next logical thing: I started to walk faster. While my stomach was still flopping about like a dying fish on land, at least I was moving closer to my destination. I approached a major intersection, and the FUCKING crosswalk signal changed. Against me. I stood there, desperately fighting the urge to scream and run through a gauntlet of speeding cars as the refried beans, salsa, cheese, and ground beef did a goddamn salsa dance with the coffee in my lower intestine. When the light changed, I nearly screamed with relief.
Then the chills kicked in. My shirt was clinging to me thanks to the thin film of sweat that was forming all over my body, and I started to shiver just a bit. The concoction in my gut had migrated to my colon, and was ready to vacate the premises. I should have walked into fucking traffic. As I waddled along, trying to clench my asscheeks as best as possible, the idea of finding somewhere to drop trou and purge my system of this devil-beast broadcast firmly in my brain. I looked around for possible spots, scoping out real estate like a predatory buyer. No way. Too much foot traffic. All I needed was to be discovered by a family, their night of enjoyment suddenly turned to a horrific ordeal thanks to the spectacle of some idiot blowing mud all over some shrubbery while crying with orgasmic pleasure. I clenched my asscheeks harder and soldiered on.
While passing people, I had to wrest my gaze from theirs, lest they notice the stark terror and desperation in my eyes and mistake me for an axe murderer or a member of an emo band. My body practically convulsed from chills, and I fought to keep from whimpering as the mixture declared full-blown jihad on my asshole. I started to waddle faster and realized just how terrible of an idea that was, and just how terrible the walk of shame up the steps of the apartment would be with liquefied shit dripping down my legs and into my shoes, so forced myself to stop. Finally, I could see it. The apartment loomed ahead like Mecca. If my life was a cliched romantic comedy, this would have been the scene set to a booming symphony as the two lovers ran toward each other in slow motion and join in an embrace, only my partner would have been a toilet. Walking up the stairs, I cursed gravity as the substance bobbed up and down, eagerly awaiting its freedom. I spastically unlocked the gate, spastically unlocked the door to the apartment, threw off my backpack, and made a mad dash for the bathroom. If Diva was in there, I planned a detour to the litterbox. Thankfully, the bathroom was unoccupied, and I flung myself at the porcelain god just in time to let loose.
It was fucking disgusting and fucking amazing all at once.
Posted by Jake at June 27, 2007 09:22 PM
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