America

I have since returned to America. Those days of elocution about my stools have passed by once again. My mouth has taken over, or rather my mind. Or rather my anus has taken over, and the faculties I once had command of are now centered mostly in my anus. Maybe I am taking the best shits of my life, maybe I will never know it. I haven’t written for months. I have been shitting, though, that is certain. I have been eating out, eating various dishes of manifold composition. Let us take this particular evening for example. I drank a sidecar, some ice water and was served a green salad with bleu cheese dressing. I then ate a lamb chop with potatoes. I also sampled the Chilean sea-bass. For desert I had a pecan pie, and throughout the dinner I drank a dry white whine from southern France. This is all well and good if one fails to consider the other victuals that are presently coursing around me. 4 cups of coffee with my milk and cereal in the morning, a chicken salad sandwich on a croissant with pepper jack cheese, onions, olives, pickles and mustard, 6 baked chicken taquitos, one home made brownie and a bag of sour cream flavored baked lays potato chips. I am about to produce a stool in the next 5 minutes, I will be sure to observe its every facet, its scents, its sounds and the visual clues that might give cause for alarm.

I believe this is the first entry made while actually producing. This is a breakthrough. The stool is cresting, it has fallen, breaking into two distinct pieces. I forecast a slight residue. Oh Jesus, I forgot that my lamb chop was served with a side of potatoes and asparagus and that has given an accent to the shit that I could never have foreseen. While the shit must have had a pointy end, as on entrance it made little splash and hardly any sound, I could tell that it was of a somewhat soft composition by the amount of resistance my anal walls faced. Presently I feel uncomfortable, and a little embarrassed, as there is another shit in me reticent to exit. I have now recoiled my rectal walls twice in anticipation, something that is surely unhealthy and unnecessary. I am quite nervous, a third time, to be writing while performing. It is something I have never done before, after all. There are assorted intestinal sounds that are accompanying this period of waiting… oh, it is cresting, it is peaking, oh it was precluded by a small pellet, something quite common after a rectal pinch (this from the previous log), and out of fear I recoiled again. Cresting… it has appeared and it is thin and stringy. My face feels hot and I have just recoiled again. Perhaps I should put down this instrument and allow the shit to run its course, surely this experiment has proven something.

I am presently forcing gas out of my anus, waiting for the completion of this shit. Though the logs were split into various sections, I do remind myself that it is all one great shit, one continuous shit, that is punctuated only by the tension in my rectum and by the availability of nutrients. In this way, my shits are somewhat like an electrical current, if only somewhat.

While wiping I could feel the tension in my anus. I attribute this to the fear associated with performance, but how could I ever know why my anus acts in one way or another? Regardless, the paper was barely used as the feces, though stringy, left little residues on my anus. This may be a result of the expulsion of much gas in between bouts. It was mostly an unsatisfying shit, I will choose wisely before taking this computer into the gauntlet with me again.