I think a witch cursed me, because I’ve been squirting a continuous stream of shit for the past forty-five minutes

I shouldn’t have hit that cat with my car, I *definitely* shouldn’t have told its sobbing owner to get the fuck over herself, and above all, I wish I hadn’t forgotten my iPhone when racing to the shitter. But I did all of those things, and now it looks like my last will and testament will be an internet message of warning and sweaty terror.

Yes, I could have swerved to avoid the cat. But I drive a Maybach, and if you don’t understand why that requires a different set of rules, that’s why you’ll never drive a Maybach. It’s $1,913 a month. You wouldn’t get it.

SHIT that was a sudden wave of pain. Can she hear what I’m thinking? Fuck fuck fuck, I need to get through this before my colon turns me inside out.

So I feel the cat roll under my tires and I know it’s dead. I would have kept on driving, but the car shut off at that exact moment like it had been cursed, so I got out and found this old crone crying and screaming over the cat’s guts. She looked older than Facebook and six different kinds of ugly, but the cat was a Calico, so she couldn’t have been a witch, right?

Anyway, I told her that the cat should have known that streets are for Mercedes and sand is for cats, because you don’t see me shitting in its catshit box, right?

OW. The sudden waves of pain are the only things that distract me from the terror. How the fuck am I supposed to handle fear with no precedent?

So the old crone just cries louder when I blame the cat for hitting my car, then flings the catgut on my Brioni trousers and yells “shapata” or something like that. Holy *shit*, can a person’s life change in a moment. You know that feeling you get as a small child looking down into a dark basement? Combine that with the smell of deeply rotten milk and the pain of taking a tetherball to the nuts, then manifest that as a tearing sensation in your anus. The strange thing is that I couldn’t look away from her as she stared at me and said that word over and over again. I usually only see that kind of hate in a woman’s eyes when I tell her that she’s too ugly for my tastes, but in her case, I figured it was a given.

It was like she was telling me that my *spirit* was ugly.

I didn’t even realize that she’d been walking toward me until her eyes were a few inches from mine; it was like she’d put me in a trance that only broke when she ran a jagged fingernail across my abdomen, leaving fiery pain its wake.

So I told her to fuck herself and raced back to the Maybach.

That’s when things got worse.

I felt like I’d swallowed a prune casserole and washed it down with stale coffee soaked in manatee piss. I had to clench my buttcheeks and roll my pelvis like I was trying to fornicate the Maybach’s steering wheel just to keep the feces on the proper side of my sphincter. It wasn’t easy to make it to the nearest gas station, but these seats are Corinthian leather that wasn’t designed to come in brown, so I pulled off an effort worthy of epic Greek poetry.

I threw the car into park and reached for my phone, but it had fallen to the floor in the swerving, and I knew I couldn’t bend over without spraying unholy mole down my already stained Brioni. Grabbing my computer instead, I ran into a bathroom that looked like it had been used to clean other dirty bathrooms, dropped the trousers, and finally released my pain.

Or so I thought. It felt like Satan was rip-starting a lawnmower with an infinite chain of barbed wire that ran directly through my butthole and into hell. After two minutes of continuous soft-serve terror, I looked between my legs.

I had nearly filled the toilet. And it wasn’t just shit, either. I bordered on had a panic attack when I recognized blood, colon, and a yellow organ-looking thing that I’m pretty sure is supposed to be inside my guts and not in a dirty bathroom toilet.

That’s when I felt something big squirting out and I closed my legs, too petrified to watch myself falling apart.

Then the poop touched bottoms of my thighs.

So I had to flush. What choice did I have? I couldn’t bear the thought of rising above the porcelain as a never-ending stream of fecal matter lifted me over the broken stall’s door, and I didn’t want to dig through shit for whatever body parts had slipped out and were now useless, so I flushed the pungent sludge.

I kept shitting.

And flushing.

Every so often, a huge, slippery thing spreads my rectum like a dirty rubber band and falls out of me. I only stop crying to vomit, but the puke only hits the toilet if I slide my ass away, so everything’s a mess. I’m too terrified to keep track of the body parts I’ve lost. It’s easier to flush and not think about it. But I’m getting pretty lightheaded. I must have lost fifty pounds of body mass at this point, and the stream is only getting thicker. Something big just plopped into the bowl, but I can’t bring myself to look. No matter what’s down there, it will be very, very bad.

I guess you could say I’m scared shitless.

I’m going to do everything I can to stay conscious. I’ll update [when I can](https://www.facebook.com/P-F-McGrail-181784199029462/).

[BD](https://www.reddit.com/r/ByfelsDisciple/)

[W](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCcn_pa1QfNMRzbTuJqXSoRQ)

[E](https://www.reddit.com/r/TheCrypticCompendium/)