Like a truck.

My stomach wrenched in pain that night. I was lying in bed and couldnt bear the dagger-like jabs in my side anymore. I sat up, in defeat, and threw the blankets off of me in disgust. I knew what I had done to myself. Hunched and worried, I took only a few steps before I was in the washroom. My pants hit the floor and I was crouched and ready for the worst. I gripped the sink and a nearby ledge. My legs shot out like canons, and as if I was in battle, I dropped a spray of napalm into the bay below me. Waves crashed, people fled for their lives and I coated the bowl of porcelain. The pain in my stomach seemed to ooze away just as the oozing itself came to a crashing halt. The wipe was treacherous and bountiful. A tree's life and my dignity died that night. The flush was even more anxious. I watched in anticipation as the swirl swallowed my droppings. No plunger needed, thank god. I washed my face and gazed at myself in the mirror. "Three double cheeseburgers after the bar, really?" Shameful. I dried my face, sucked in my gut, and headed back to bed. Sunday morning never felt so good.