Latest Entry
My Music
Email me
Help Justin

the HTs
Eating Hair
War On Moths
Free HT pics!
Taco Bell
Video Giveaway
Twin Towers Necklace
Pee Cannon Video
Big Cock Bible

Older Entries



My stomach. Ugh.

Gurgling. Rumbling. Tumbling. Angry firehose anus. So much hurting. Painful abdomen. I feel like an ant looks—you know, with the funny midsection all jacked up and puffy and wrong–looking. Sure, it's fine for an ant. But, humans aren't supposed to have swollen, pinched off abdomens. It's just not right.

But, that's how I feel.

Maybe next time I shouldn't order the most obscure things on the menu at the dodgy Chinese restaurant, just to make adventure for my out–of–town friend. I mean, stir fried corn and pine nuts with pork skin? Or, frog stir fried with green chiles?

I guess there were stranger things on the menu, like preserved meat congee [rice porridge] with duck egg. And, then there were the dishes with the intestines and guts and other nuggets of horror. Those things aren't really food, though. I wouldn't even consider eating those things, except maybe for comedy. And even then I might not do it.

This meal wasn't even supposed to be about comedy. I was trying to be serious and actually eat some food. Well, and I was trying to impose some culinary adventure on Michael.

Michael is from Austin. He'd never been to California before. So, of course I wanted to rock him out with the second–most authentic Californian food of all—Chinese food. The most authentic Californian food is Mexican food, of course. But, they have Mexican food in Texas—in fact, it's much better there. So, I knew I couldn't take him for Mexican food. That would've been like taking a New Yorker to Las Vegas and trying to impress them with that ridiculous casino hotel New York, New York.

Oh well. I tried with the food. I did my best. It was supposed to work out fine. The eating part was fine. He liked it. And, we had fun. But, the honeymoon of the eating is over. Now, all that remains is acute agony within my poor, afflicted gastrointestinal tract. The leftovers sit quietly in the fridge. They taunt me from their chilly resting place—calling me like sirens to give them one more chance. Eat us, Justin. Eat us. But, no! I will not fall prey to their siren song! I will not be the foolish sailor, lured in by their intoxicating song, only to have my bowels once again smashed on the rocky shores of violent diarrhea.

Screw this. I'm going to bed. Hopefully that will bring an end to my pain. I can't wait to tumble backwards into the utopia called sleep—a far away place where frogs dance and and corn and pine nuts and pigs and all nature of preserved duck eggs play together nicely. In this magical sleepy place there is no war within my tummy, there is no violence against my anus, and branches of pregnant rainbow trees hang heavy with fruit–flavored antacid pills. There is only peace and singing and eating in this dream–paradise. And, of course the silent stream of ants carrying bits of this and that back to their underground bungalows for a brunch that would blow the average abdomen to bits.