Creeping Death

The following is a situation that always strikes me as silly after the fact, and absolutely terrifying in the moment:

The setting is the middle of your night.  How many drinks vanished into your bloodstream at dinner?  Enough to wake you with this urgency.  You don’t bother to open your eyes or put on your slippers or do anything requiring a minimal amount of neuron-firing.

You feel like you’ve already started to relieve yourself before you’re positioned rightly over the toilet bowl.  Almost as instantaneously as the wave of relief washes over, you smell it.  You wonder – what is that – did you eat asparagus or something?

You have your muscle memory to thank for flipping the light switch, but now you couldn’t open your eyes even if you wanted.  Did Glade make a pepper spray air freshener?

Then the horror of realization sets in, and you’ve only begun pissing.  Somebody was cleaning the toilet.  The chlorine reacting with your personal ammonia is taking your breath away and scorching your retinas, and you yell in pain and frustration at the agonizing situation but before you have a chance to think or cut your stream off, you envision how the emergency workers are going to find you pale and asphyxiated.

Dick in hand.

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