âyou and bree fucking?â
âyeaaaahhhhâ
âwhat the fuck. you slimy fucking ratâ
âstephen get a fucking therapistâ
THIS IS CINEMA
#tellmelies
What happens when you drink 10 oz of Magnesium Citrate?
Iâm glad you asked. Buckle up.
12:05 p.m. â It begins. You down the 10-ounce bottle like itâs a lukewarm PBR at a college tailgate. The label says âcherry flavored,â but it tastes like someone described cherry to a chemist whoâs never eaten fruit. Regret sets in instantly.
12:06 p.m. â You grab a handful of chips for moral support. Theyâll be liquified before they clear your throat, but who cares? Life still feels okay right now. Remember this peace. Youâre about to enter the darkest chapter of your gastrointestinal history.
12:37 p.m. â The rumbling starts. Thereâs movement in the depths. Youâve got five pounds of impacted regret in your colon, and you just drank the âhuman-safeâ version of Drano. You think itâs go time. Itâs not. You get one sad little snake turd â a warm-up act.
Thatâs the last semi-solid youâll see for the next 24 hours.
12:57 p.m. â The situation escalates. Your stomach is in full revolt. You have 0.3 seconds to make it to the toilet. Running is risky business â one wrong step and youâll paint the walls. You pray for sphincter strength like never before as you waddle at Mach 3, pants half down, whispering, âPlease, God, not like this.â
12:58 p.m. â Impact.
You sit, and the gates of hell open.
The explosion is biblical. It hits the back of the bowl with such violent force it ricochets like a sprinkler system.
You ask yourself, Is that blood?
No â false alarm. Just the ghost of a cherry pie you ate in 2004. The smell is unspeakable. The acoustics? Terrifying. The neighbors think youâre performing an exorcism.
1:06 p.m. â 8:30 p.m. â Time becomes meaningless. Youâve evacuated everything youâve ever eaten, plus a few ancestral meals for good measure. Your colon feels like itâs been sandblasted with lava. The burn is real. Youâre sweating. Crying. Contemplating life. You meet Jesus briefly, but He sends you back â says your missionâs not over yet.
8:37 p.m. â Youâre empty. Broken. Reborn.
Your butthole? A war veteran.
Your spirit? In recovery.
Youâll never be the same, but you will survive.
Tomorrow, youâll rise from the ashes, slip into your last clean pair of underwear, and waddle into Walmart like a survivor of gastrointestinal warfare â to buy a new toilet brush and reclaim your dignity.
Youâve earned it.
Feeling thankful. đŠđ
Having kidsâŚ
I keep thinking of a tiny girl taking a bus ride home after working at a pizza shop not bothering anyone and having her throat slit.
I want to cry for her.
Then I think about how it happened and I want to rage.
I want everyone responsible ruined.
Everyone.