Lemme tell you about raw oysters. Unless you wanna end up clutching your stomach, miming banshee wails, and praying to any divine being that happens to have nothing else better to do on a Friday night than to spare your life, don’t inhale that ish down. Yes, your hearing still works. Your life because that’s what it feels like: you’re dying and there’s no cure whatsoever in all of the T. rex era to end it.

You try to close your eyes to think of anything except for the Great War Zeppelin bombing raids going on in your stomach. For five seconds it allows you to see images of your favorite teachers, your mother bringing you chicken noodle soup, your father running after you on a bike, your best friend at a karate match, your crush smiling at you, a plastic reindeer against the windowpane, and 36 snickerdoodles sitting on a cookie sheet. For five seconds you are relieved.

But it knocks again, persistently, like a Jehovah’s Witness. Heh. You’ll be lucky to have a digestive system after this is all over. What’s that? You think you’re getting better, eh? Kick the mattress over and over and see if that’ll do any good. Nuthin’? Didn’t think so. Think it’ll show you mercy? Lemme just ask you this, how many trips have you made to the bathroom? 1,113? That’s what I thought.

Those filter feeders have pushed your today and tomorrow’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner out from both ends, Francisco Goyaing up this joint into the preppy version of Slumdog Millionaire on the floor, on the toilet, and around the toilet because it’s flexible like a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader like that. Then, just when you think you’re emaciated enough, you make another trip.

Prompt: “raw.”

YuMin Ye

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