Pressure

Several punches to the stomach and the pressure of the spoilt food descend slowly and painfully. When would I get the time to be relieved? Sitting and typing my dreams into the zeros and ones hoping that one day these thoughts that flow through my minds then to my finger tips would be more than just arbitrary thoughts of my young mind. Rubbing my dry eyes and feeling the dry burning sensation of previously scratched skin I continue to type. The pressure of the spoilt food has subsided for now and my thoughts begin to stall. Small discomfort begins to churn around inside my body as lunchtime draws near. But these churns are not churns of hunger but churns of spoilt food. The food may not be spoilt but my body refuses to keep its indigestible remnants.

As the pressure increases, my head feels a slight pulse of pain and I begin to jib my feet rapidly. Before I knockout, I got up and head to place of decontamination. The release is good and the pains of poisonous fluid have been displaced. Life is good.