(no subject)
Dear Prostate:
I have always thought of you as a friend, a companion, one who, even if everyone I called friend banished me from memory and I lost all I considered dear, would be there, inside of me, keeping me company and aiding me in the continual process of emptying whatever colored urine might be inhabiting my bladder at the time. But tonight, tonight you turned your back on your generational duties and provided me a hit, a most palpable hit. Both you and I know that with regards to the knowledge of the intricacies of computer programming, I have none, but my almost uncanny knowledge of when I have to pee could most definitely have amassed several doctorates in all my years of life. So in response to my bladder's complaints, I cut my break short and left the Linux and Unix and other such pointless programming books that only attracted my attention in the first place because of the variety of wildlife that is to be found of the book's covers, and the subsequent sense of zoological intrigue that befell my mind. When I arrived at that porcelain throne, that proud, cake bearing center of satisfaction, I expected our transaction to be just like all the other's we've had in the past; I pee, I flush, I wash, I dry, I leave.
But No.
There is a vas deferens between what you did to me tonight and what you've never done to me before. You see, there are expectations, certain expectations which demand certain satisfactions. Mainly, me expecting a steady flow, and me being satisfied whilst finished. Maybe you threw down with my pancreas, maybe the left kidney had a beef with you, and you decided it was curtains for that mother, but took a couple hits in the battle, which, raged on, I'm sure. Whatever the cause, your flaring up to some indescribable size and preventing my precious urine from exiting my body is something I will never forgive. There is nothing like feeling as though Niagara is inside me, but a cork of flesh is keeping it back. Believe me, it didn't exactly start there, I suffered before I knew what was actually going on:
ah, the urnial, at last.
......why isn't it coming out?.....
fuck, I have to pee.
....what the shit?....................ouch...that hurts....wait.........what?
why isn't it coming out!??!
ouch!
fuck!!!
fuck!
fuck!
hey!
damnit!
prostate!!
fuck!
So it began with confusion, moved on to confusion/anger, then went to anger/pain, and finally finished up at confusion/excruciating pain/rage.
In closing, I can forgive, but I cannot forget, and on my deathbed will make every attempt to do as much damage to you as possible so that when the time comes to distribute my organs and tissue to dying and needy children, no one will get you, and will die, right there, along with me.
Yours For the Revolution,
Frankie.
I have always thought of you as a friend, a companion, one who, even if everyone I called friend banished me from memory and I lost all I considered dear, would be there, inside of me, keeping me company and aiding me in the continual process of emptying whatever colored urine might be inhabiting my bladder at the time. But tonight, tonight you turned your back on your generational duties and provided me a hit, a most palpable hit. Both you and I know that with regards to the knowledge of the intricacies of computer programming, I have none, but my almost uncanny knowledge of when I have to pee could most definitely have amassed several doctorates in all my years of life. So in response to my bladder's complaints, I cut my break short and left the Linux and Unix and other such pointless programming books that only attracted my attention in the first place because of the variety of wildlife that is to be found of the book's covers, and the subsequent sense of zoological intrigue that befell my mind. When I arrived at that porcelain throne, that proud, cake bearing center of satisfaction, I expected our transaction to be just like all the other's we've had in the past; I pee, I flush, I wash, I dry, I leave.
But No.
There is a vas deferens between what you did to me tonight and what you've never done to me before. You see, there are expectations, certain expectations which demand certain satisfactions. Mainly, me expecting a steady flow, and me being satisfied whilst finished. Maybe you threw down with my pancreas, maybe the left kidney had a beef with you, and you decided it was curtains for that mother, but took a couple hits in the battle, which, raged on, I'm sure. Whatever the cause, your flaring up to some indescribable size and preventing my precious urine from exiting my body is something I will never forgive. There is nothing like feeling as though Niagara is inside me, but a cork of flesh is keeping it back. Believe me, it didn't exactly start there, I suffered before I knew what was actually going on:
ah, the urnial, at last.
......why isn't it coming out?.....
fuck, I have to pee.
....what the shit?....................ouch...that hurts....wait.........what?
why isn't it coming out!??!
ouch!
fuck!!!
fuck!
fuck!
hey!
damnit!
prostate!!
fuck!
So it began with confusion, moved on to confusion/anger, then went to anger/pain, and finally finished up at confusion/excruciating pain/rage.
In closing, I can forgive, but I cannot forget, and on my deathbed will make every attempt to do as much damage to you as possible so that when the time comes to distribute my organs and tissue to dying and needy children, no one will get you, and will die, right there, along with me.
Yours For the Revolution,
Frankie.