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Acid streams in slow motion from a bottle marked "hydrochloric" to the flesh of your sunburned arm. A feeling not like needles sticking in a human pin cushion nor steel wool fixed to the end of an electric sander scrapping relentlessly in one specific locality of precious pink and orange skin. More like a painful shock that disallows a scream--same as the moment just after crashing face first off a bicycle and scraping your two front teeth against the cement of a driveway. Can you feel it eating at you like a parasite? And what about the taste? Your mouth is repulsed and overwhelmed with a sulfuric coating. Once-soothing saliva is now a refill of this poisonous tidal wave--a mix of harsh liquids: drain-o, white vinegar, rancid olive juice, age old champagne. It gags. You hack and cough and spit. Your eyes water and your face grimaces illustrating horrid pain. Can you taste it creeping up the back of your throat like that bit of vomit that is coughed up then swallowed again from time to time? And what about the sound? A crackling less friendly than a popular cereal. More like cooking oil dripped onto a scorching hot pan. Seething and constant sibilant sound so high your dog cowers in the corner. Loud--uncomfortably loud. You panic at the thought that a fire is raging just behind you in the breakfast room. No comfort is attained as your eyes grow wide and you realize there are no flames in your comfortable home, but rather your tender flesh is being devoured by ravenous hydrochloric acid. Such is my pain. |
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