During the summer of 2002, when I was twelve, my family took the obligatory vacation. We made an eight-hour drive up to Niagara Falls, planning to stay a week. On day five we realized we'd done everything we had wanted to do; therefore we decided to leave a day early and stay overnight at our favorite Pennsylvania amusement park to supplement the trip.

From Niagara to the park were five to six hours of butt-numbing highway, plus an hour long stop at a naval museum my dad just had to see. My insides were behaving perfectly; I was blissfully unaware of the betrayal they would perform that night.

We reached the motel around four and decided to go to the park until closing time. The park didn’t charge for admission or parking, so going for a few hours wasn’t a waste of money. We grabbed some dinner, rode a few gentle rides, and then grabbed some ice cream.

I was not yet aware that I was lactose-intolerant or had IBS at this point in my life - I had just been under the impression that I had a temperamental tummy.

After a giant serving of ice cream, the family climbed on the Grand Carousel, a favorite ride for all of us. As our horses began to bounce and revolve around the calliope, I could feel my stomach twist and gurgle.

"It's nothing,” I told myself, “it's just food settling. No biggie".

I was lying. It was a biggie.

The carousel kept turning, and my horse kept going up and down. As my stomach continued to tighten and bubble, I tried to adjust my position, though it is impressively difficult to control ones inner food demon while straddling a bouncing, spinning horse. A sharp stab of pain erupted in my sides and lower tummy, and I doubled over. My lip was sweaty, my eyes were watering, and my bung hole was about to be shredded and scorched by devil poo. I looked helplessly at my mom on the horse next to me for reassurance, but she scowled back. My mom had little patience for my hiney-problems and was not eager to have her vacation interrupted by her daughter's bum.

The carousel began to slow down, so I carefully climbed down from my horse, planning to leap from the ride as fast as possible. For the carousel to come to a complete stop, it took a few rotations; on this night those were a few rotations too many. I broke Rule Number One of carousel riding and jumped off while it was still spinning. I then tore through the gate, ran for the bathroom, and jumped into a stall.

Maybe my sudden flight caused some internal movement or my shameful shitter nature had taken over, but for whatever reason, I could not go. Could Not. I tried. I pushed, squeezed, and even cried a bit, but I simply could not go. The ride eventually stopped and emptied, and my mom (unsympathetic to my turmoil) arrived outside my stall, yelling. The park was closing down for the night, and we had to leave.

A chill ran up my back. I had to get off the toilet, make the hike back to the car, and survive the drive to the motel. Altogether this would probably only take thirty minutes, but I knew my insides would torment me again, and soon.

I don't remember much of the walk to the car, or the drive, but I know we stopped at a Turkey Hill for some sodas and snacks to keep in the room. My dad and brothers went in and left me with my angry mother. My stomach was still churning - it felt like I had swallowed a cannon ball. However, I sat in the seat, doubled over, and tried to keep calm until we reached the motel.

All of a sudden, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. A chill came over my whole body, my face tightened, and before I knew it I was scrambling for the store. I ran through the front door in the hopes of grabbing the cashier's attention, because I was desperate to get a bathroom key or at least find out where it was. My dad was in line and must have seen the look on my little face, because he pointed to a grey door in the corner. I ran to it in a flash.

For being a gas station convenience store bathroom, it was nice. It was indoors and had a clean toilet, fairly clean floors, and good supply of paper. I was set.

I let loose the quintessence of all toxic poos. Acid spewed forth and seared my hind end. The smell shot up and burned both my nose and eyes, making them water. My crap sounded like a machine gun and a waterfall at the same time, as it was mostly liquid with a few little turdlet rocks flying out.

And just as quickly as it began, it was over.

I sat in shock and too scared to move, lest I trigger another onslaught. As I began cleaning up, my acid-covered backside was still burning. I was still shivering when my mom started pounding on the door. The family wanted to go back to the motel, and I was holding them up.

I kept yelling I’d be out in a sec, but she continued pounding. At some point, the toxic fumes must’ve gone through the grate in the door and found their way to her nose, because she stopped pounding and went back outside.

I finally stood up, weak and spent, and saw the horrors of what ice cream does to me. I almost gagged - greens and browns like that are nowhere in the color spectrum and had no business coming out of my butt! However, I was thrilled to have survived the ordeal, so I flushed. Then, I washed my hands and limped (no exaggeration) back to the car. I was too scared to relax as we pulled out back onto the road for fear of having to poop again before we reached the motel. I made it, though, and that night I slept in the bathroom, afraid to stray from the toilet. To this day, I refuse to eat ice cream out of fear that I might not survive the next round or find a toilet in time.