Dear, Painful Bowel Movements
Hey, you know one thing I love about life? Waking up in the morning, having a cup of coffee, taking a few drags off of a cigarette, then getting a peculiar sensation in my bowels that can only be described as poop samurais having katana fights in the lower section of my tummy. That’s just an invigorating way to start my day. I love nothing more than my first emotion I feel in the morning to be panic and dread rolled in to a hatred of living.
Granted, I can be blamed for experiencing this pain. It is my body and my intestines, after all. But there doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for the pain, bowels. If I eat a disgusting conglomeration of junk food the night before, I wake up with the torture shits. If I eat a nice, lightly broiled chicken breast with a side of steamed broccoli, I feel like I’m passing a 43-year old unemployed, slightly over-weight alcoholic man out of my anus. I don’t understand what I have to do to appease the mighty gods of scat, but clearly I’ve angered you in such a way that I’ve been deemed unworthy of smooth, relaxing poos that make my hindquarters feel all loosey-goosey and free. I don’t like rushing to the bathroom, feeling like I’m going to fill a toilet to the rim with the pure essence of hatred and malevolence, then walking away from the bathroom so emotionally, physically, and psychologically drained that I just want to draw the curtains and fall asleep in the hopes of waking up a few hours later to get a fresh start to the day; one that doesn’t include debating whether or not I should shed some tears to relieve myself of emotional distress while sitting on a toilet.
Perhaps the worst part of the painful shredding of my intestinal tract isn’t even the pain itself. It’s the knowledge that this particular instance of searing poop pain won’t be the last time I have to go through this. Damn you, Painful Bowel Movements, for adding a second layer of torment to an already excruciating experience. The first level is one of agonizing physical pain. The second level, though, takes place entirely in my mind as I look ahead to the future where I know, for a fact, that I will one day have to slowly creep to my toilet (again), winching in pain (again), hunched over like a guy walking away from a vicious bar fight (again), and experiencing the very same pain I’m experiencing at that very moment (again). And the worst part of this worst part (a subsection of this worst part that nearly eclipses the worst part it’s associated with) is there’s no getting used to the feeling. Painful bowel movements are not like the flu virus, where you can catch it once and you automatically gain a degree of immunity to that strain for the rest of your life. You, Painful Bowel Movements, are more like being stabbed – every new stabbing is just like the first one: it really f*cking hurts. So, thanks for that.
Another Thank You goes to pathetic morsels of waste that act at the unsatisfying crescendo to this grand opus of bodily waste removal. Painful Bowel Movements, you don’t understand how elated I become when, after my multi-minute painfest that I swear makes me black out for a little bit and transports me to an alternate dimension where my poop is anthropomorphic and is actively attempting to kill me with a chainsaw, I look down in to the bowl and see what amounts to a few pebbles that would be slightly bothersome if they were rattling around in my shoe; but not so bothersome that I immediately remove the shoe and shake them out. They’re just bothersome enough that I can go about by daily business for a few hours and only decide to shake them free when I have one of those moments where I set the gas pump lever so it stays locked in pumping mode and I lean on my car not knowing how to fill those few moments of free time. The difference is, those shoe pebbles were a thought in the back of my mind that I would get to eventually. The pathetic poop pebbles were like being woken up in the middle of the night by a 6.0 earthquake, only to discover that your cell was set to vibrate and you received a text. It’s such an underwhelming result. It’s like eagerly anticipated and highly hyped summer blockbuster, only to sit in the theater and quickly realized that Michael Bay has churned out a $200 million shit pebble.
P.S. – You’re a real pain in my ass. ZING!