I shit black again and wait about 10 seconds before it shuffles down. For twenty years I’ve known that I get closer to the final shit with each black tar dump. Cells that should stay put don’t. Cells that should be living and dying inside me aren’t. They’ve jumped ship like the rest of me wants to but is too preoccupied with what people might think to do anything heroic or otherwise.
The blood doesn’t even hide anymore. It’s visible on the porcelain now, just like it always has been on paper. Red on brown on white. I swear I could shit better than anyone who calls himself an artist could ever paint. When’s the last time a painting took someone’s breath away because of the suffocating smell?
It was buffalo wings this time. Sixteen buffalo wings in Caribbean Jerk sauce, an impressive amount of alcohol, and a handful of fries. Empirically.
Unempirically it was sixteen buffalo wings in Caribbean Jerk sauce, an impressive amount of alcohol, and a handful of fries and sense that if I hold it long enough, block it all in, squeeze as hard as I can, then I can stop the decay--I can keep what’s mine.
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