I’m shitting maggots.
I can feel them, wriggling away in my colon, until that polite and insistent pressure indicates that I should find a toilet. And then they burst forth, plishing into the water as a particulate mass. I can feel them moving as they pass the rim of that taut portal.
Still, I can think of worse ways to spend the afternoon. Working a nine-to-five, for example. Or having my teeth ground down with a pumice stone wielded by a cheerleader. But maybe that’s just me.
I don’t want you to hate me. I want a banana split. I don’t want there to be fingers growing out of my eye sockets. I want to hear sweet promises whispered to me in the night. I don’t want a bowl of jello. I want there to be a healthful, constructive end to this dark madness. I don’t want to crack my teeth gnawing on the bones of faith. I want to flush away the squirming, tangled mass of corrupt potential that issues forth from me in a nightmare of tactility.
I want you to help me. You might not help me. I’ll fight so you don’t want to, and I’ll fight so you can’t. When next I snack, it’s likely as not I’ll have fly eggs. There is a certain noble inevitability to it all that makes me sexier. I will win the hearts of that fascinated percentage. I will search for peace in the compelling interplays that ensue. I may or may not find it.