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As anyone who likes a coffee and a smoke in the morning will tell you, constipation is a bit of a nightmare when you're cutting down your tobacco usage. I'm no exception, and since I'm planning on taking a little while to gently reduce the amount I smoke, I decided a small amount of assistance would be in order.
This month, I invested in a significant quanitity of prune juice. A warrior's drink, in my opinion. In fact, I discovered I liked it so much that, before I knew it, I had consumed an entire litre carton of the stuff. Unpeturbed, I thought little of it and settled down to get what little work done I could.
No less than half an hour passed before unholy noises began emanating from my midsection. Truly terrifying sounds, such as the devil himself might make were he to pass through a meat grinder. So begins my newfound kinship with the porcelain reliable. Over an hour I spent there, it would seem, and by the time I thought it were over my legs were numb and my back enraged with Woden's fury. There is nothing left but exhaustion and fear, but a welcome shower provides some restoration.
But for a short while. Not twenty minutes after drying and dressing and I am back, unceremoniously de-pantsed and seated. So continues the orchestra of expulsion. By now I am a hair from weeping, and my hell's portal lets afly great thunderclaps of fume in an oddly rhythmic recital. The entire works of Shakespear might have been found in that aural delight, I will never know.
This morning, almost a full 24 hours post-movement, I can still hear the sound of Beelzebub-icide from below. My lesson has been learned.
