Constipation can be a brutal ordeal. More than once, I have found myself sitting on the pot for long periods of time, waiting for a phantom turd to poke its head out of my straining bung. I have felt the helplessness that can only come from having a dried-out log roughly the size of Lou Ferrigno's right bicep lodged inside your colon for days. After straining for so long, your legs go numb, and your sphincter is rendered as useless as a castrati at an orgy. A couple of times, I have had to actually reach up my own asshole and scoop out little hard pellets of shit until my abused anal muscles could take over.
But perhaps the worst thing regarding my bouts with constipation is the fact that they could easily have been avoided. I know damn well that eating an entire large pizza by myself is going to result in a corked-up rectum, but I do it anyway. I know I should drink lots of water to keep things flowing, but instead I'll opt for a glass of milk. Am I subconsciously a masochist? Do I somehow long for the unparalleled satisfaction that can only be had when one finally does poop after a vicious bout of constipation? Since I cannot seem to shake my attachment to bung-binding food and drink, constipation is truly my cross to bear.
Although being constipated is agonizing at best, I most definitely prefer it over diarrhea. It seems like almost every week or so I have a bout of that watery, ass-blistering horror that pretty much ruins my day beyond compare. Awful, gut-wrenching cramps usually serve as an indication that a bad case of the shits is next on my starfish's agenda. Then come the sounds of protest from my stomach -- haunting, discordant sounds that defy description. And Christ, the odors. The farts I cut before I take my watery shit (assuming I manage to squeak one out without soiling myself) would stop a riot in progress, and could be used in place of acetylene to torch metal.
My bathroom sessions while afflicted with the shits can be likened to a game of chess against my intestines. There's a lot of waiting and more than a little strategy involved. Each move is carefully planned. Wiping now versus wiping later (to save wear and tear on my asshole), and how long to wait after you think you are completely empty (to make sure no liquipoo is left) are just a few of the decisions that I face while on the pot.
I usually emerge from the bathroom with a slight limp, and with a distinct rawness to my balloon knot. The frequent shitstorms that I experience can most likely be attributed to my weekly habit of getting drunk on cheap booze and then eating greasy Mexican food. Once again, I just can't seem to forsake my appetite for food and drink, even when I know it is going to affect me adversely.
I have made many promises to myself and to my body whilst doubled over in agony on the john. Sweating and shaking like a mare during a difficult foaling, I have sworn never again to consume the evil foods that gave rise to my pathetic state. But I know that I can never escape this vicious circle; it is part of who I am. Each sip of vodka and each bite of burrito brings me only bittersweet satisfaction, as I know that they will prove to be my undoing a few short hours later. Don't mourn for me, I have chosen my path. Instead, mourn for the memory of my starfish, and know that I will continue to hold high the brown torch of victory.
-- Carlos [1]