Your Most Disgusting Medical Stories

Welcome to Pissing Contest, a weekly story sharing circle for the the ass-draggiest time of the afternoon on the ass-draggiest time of the last day between you and the weekend. Every week, we’ll ask a question, you’ll share stories, and we’ll pick a winner that’s featured in the next week’s post. It’s like a pyramid scheme of outdoing each other!

Steel your stomachs, folks. This pissing contest is going to lead to barfs. Barves? Whatever the plural of “barf” is.

The human body is colorful, magical, wonderful place. It can food into bones, carry oxygen to cells on tiny blood canals, fix itself, destroy itself and sometimes, depending on your anatomy and hormones, it can take a sperm and egg and make them into a whole other person. It’s nuts. It’s completely fucking nuts.

Also, as evidence by the winner of our last cattle call for gross stories, the human body has almost endless capacity to be fucking disgusting. Warning: I didn’t even watch the infamous “mangina” video at the link, because I’ve got a stomach full of sandwich I’d like to keep down.

I’m already wincing in anticipation of what you’ll come up with. But first, let’s salute the druggiest Too Many Drugs stories of last week. Yun-wambo’s short and sweet story about mistaking a Sarah Lawrence student for a witch is pretty great. IGotABlueberryForADaughter’s high-as-fuck self made a mind exploding realization about how we never actually see our own faces. Bears, again, was excellent. Wittyname had a mutual weed freakout with her sweetheart. But the winner is heart_of_pyrite, who turned in this doozy that takes place in the perfect-for-weed Leavenworth, Washington.

Some friends and I rented a cabin outside a German-themed tourist town in mid-February. We brought shrooms and brownies, but I was high before the trip ever began—on LOVE, ya’ll. The night before, I’d had a first date that ended in the kind of Twilight-stare-in-silent-wonderment-at-one-another-in-a-meadow mutual feelings that even my 13-year-old self could not have dreamed up. He was cute, silly, unapologetically romantic, as smitten with me as I was with him, and best of all, his kinks aligned perfectly with mine (goooooaaaaaal!). He was all I could think about on that long snowy journey to the cabin, something that unfortunately didn’t change after I accidentally got way…too….high.

Half of us ate brownies, the other half took shrooms, then we all piled into a Hummer limousine that our eccentric high-earning friend insisted on renting for us. My friend told me that the brownies were very strong and that half would be enough for me—but he’d been wrong about as much before. I ate a whole one.

The pot started to kick in at the most magical place possible, a park in the center of the kitschy little town all decorated for winter. The lights and snow were dazzling. When we moved on in search of karaoke, though, things took a turn for the worse.

I started laughing too loud. I started making jokes, only to realize moments later that they made no sense. My heart started pounding and I started to realize that I was way high, way way way way high. I followed my companions, clutching them and asking them to “please hold onto me tonight; don’t let me wander off”, assuring myself that there was some sort of sober leader among us. NOPE. I was probably the highest person there, but between the shrooms and the brownies, not one of us was capable of thinking in a straight line. We were a leaderless ameoba of fucked up 30-year-olds in a family friendly Disney-esque vacation colorful nightmare town. Sights stand out. A mother and her daughters tap dancing as they walked by us. An old couple dancing alone under a gazebo. A man we dubbed “Super Normal Guy” because he was “just too regular for us”. A hellish outdoor kilbasa restaurant where every table had a FIRE in the middle (WHY did my friends think that was a good idea?). Standing atop a stone staircase leading down to the karaoke place, taking every step s-o-o-o-o-o carefully, gripping the railing, not even aware that a gaggle of tourists stood at the bottom, stifling their laughter, waiting for this poor girl to get off the stairs so they could go up. Walking through that bar without FREAKING OUT and dropping into the fetal position was maybe the most challenging experience of my life. Once there, I settled down in between some friends and just tried to ride things out by watching the Olympics on a corner TV. I wanted to fix my hair, wanted to take my coat off, but I couldn’t operate my hands.I kept blurting “Am I being too loud?”, to which my friends would say, “Girl, you’ve been sitting quietly in the corner for fifteen minutes, you’re fine.” I asked them to feel my pulse, convinced I was having a stroke. They assured me that there was no way I could overdose on pot, and that I just needed to relax, enjoy myself, wait it out. Okay. I could do that.

And then, I thought of HIM.

My date. The perfect date. The perfect man. A man who fit me so perfectly in so many ways and made me laugh and was so cute with his lanky body and flippy hair. It was just too good to be—

You know that feeling when you have the most amazing dream ever, and then wake up? That despair?

I plunged into instant despair. It had all been a dream. I was so fucking high that I’d dreamed up this perfect man, and oh god, the pain.

“Hey,” I grabbed my friend’s hands.
“Yeah?”
“On the way up here,” I slurred, “did I . . . talk about an amazing date?”
“Yeah.”
“Like, a really amazing one. With a guy named Grant?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Are you sure? Are you sure I actually did? You’re not just agreeing with me right now so that I won’t freak out?”
“No, what? Yes, I’m sure.”
“TELL ME SOMETHING THAT I SAID ABOUT HIM.”
“I don’t remember, but it was real, I promise,” my friend said. “This is really cute. This means that it meant a lot to you, for you to be so worried about it right now.”
“BUT ARE YOU SURE IT HAPPENED?”

I wasn’t convinced. I wanted to check my phone to read my texts with the guy, but I couldn’t operate my hands well enough to even unzip my fucking coat pocket. I spent the rest of the night agonizing over the fact that my dream date had been just that. A dream. A pot dream. I was devastated.

So imagine my overwhelming joy when I woke up the next morning and read the text: “So how’s Leavenworth, beautiful girl?”

Never eat the whole brownie. And yes we’re still together. 🙂

Aw. A happy ending.

Now, gird your loins for the deluge of disgust to come.

Image via Shutterstock