How A Tadpole Hatched from My Urethra and the Consequences Thereof
This story begins, like all bad stories do, with thoughts of suicide. The springthat would see a tadpole hatch from the head of my penis began with me being sent home three times for what my guidance counselor called “deliberately neglecting hygiene to the point of being misanthropic”. I folded the counselor’s note into the pocket of my jean shorts with the delicate formality of one who knows that there is only one possible recourse.
Constantly ridiculed by my classmates, ignored by my parents, I decided that afternoon to end it all. In the woods behind my house there is a small pond filled with fish I’ve never tried to catch. I had secreted away my father’s shotgun, wrapped it in my leather trenchcoat, and I stood on the creaking edge of a sun drenched dock, looking out over the pond and noticing a raccoon’s carcass floating about ten feet away. Its limbs and tail are stretched out and it is turning with the stately slowness of a gray and bloated snowflake, yellow lava lamp pollen collecting around its fingertips. I turned around, my toes away from the pond, in the hopes that the blast will make my body collapse back into the water where I’ll float face up, me and the raccoon, our corpses crisscrossing the surface of the pond and sometimes touching, only to bounce off one another and float away again, an obscene screensaver that will keep the pond from burning its ugliness onto the monitor of God.
I sat at the end of a dilapidated bench and rasped the twin barrels underneath my stubbled, doubled chins, holding the barrel in my left hand while trying to lift my right toe into the trigger guard, as I don’t have the strength to even come close to crossing my thighs under my own leg power. Finally, as I am about to press down and make my brains rain across the pond’s scummy surface when the dock’s rotted railing gives way and I fell backwards into the water, but not before the gun goes off a foot to the side of my face, disorienting me even more as I fall backward into the muddy water.
For years our neighbor dumped his Christmas trees into the pond in an attempt to make a better habitat for the fish, and the first thing my head hit was the protruding trunk of the beginning of a Christmas tree reef, and I blacked out. I don’t know how long I was out, not long enough to drown, and when I came to I was half out of the pond, my lower half covered to the waist in muck. Inexplicably, suicide was now the furthest thing from my mind, and I was not even upset about my latest in a long string of failures—the failure to kill myself. Rather, I felt totally rejuvenated, like Wilford Brimley in Cocoon, only I wasn’t in better shape, because I was breathing pretty hard by the time I made it back to my house, the gun and my coat forgotten. My parents didn’t even notice anything different when I came in, they just go back to watching a show about that parasitic worm that burrows under your eyeball. Apparently they are fascinated by the idea of a repugnant creature totally dependent on latching on to another life form for survival. Whatever, I grabbed a piece of pizza from the refrigerator and ran upstairs.
That night I slept the best I’ve ever had in my entire life. Deep, and dreamless, unhindered by my apnea, I slept like a big gay baby pressed into a wet mash of ashen Phoenix feathers which has been mixed with piss from Cerberus, after he had taken a three headed swig from Lethe, the Olympian river of oblivion. I slept well.
But in the morning I found out that I couldn’t pee, something was obstructing the flow. I had never had to strain to pee before, the pressure built up in the head of my dick until something popped out, waving angrily before darting back in. It was so sudden and small that I might have thought it a trick of the eyes, or poo poo I don’t know a twig or something jammed in there after I fell in the pond. I would grow to learn that this snippet of wriggling obsidian was in fact a tadpole, its thin but wire tough tail soldered to someplace deep inside my urethra. Well, relatively deep. For my penis. Like an inch in.
I would keep catching glimpses of the tadpole whenever I urinated. It was maddeningly fast and would resist my trying to pinch and pull it out, slipping out from fingers or tweezers or my mom’s eyelash curler that I used to stand in front of the mirror and pretend was a phaser.
Submitted by optimismrevivedthecat.
I was thinking about doing a fashion challenge….I don’t want to say too much about it but I would like to know if you are interested on watching it! :D
Also, I wanted to talk to the guys. I really want to apologize if I don’t make enough videos for you, I get sad sometimes because I would like to help you too but being a girl I find it difficult most of the time, since I can’t always ask Felix to model for me :/ So yeah, I wanted to apologize and thank you for your support ^_^Marzia
Well people should know I’ve done so countless times and shouldn’t keep being held responsible for what 2 million people chose to comment about..
Kira… :3
(Fun fact! Pyramid’s Head’s head is actually a Pyramid. Head. It’s not a helmet. It’s seriously his entire head.)
Technically it is a helmet. It infused with the face.
Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat.
Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love. The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly.
To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has appeared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner. His tail has long since been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would constantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoulders with thick, yellowing scabs.
Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. “That’s one UGLY cat!!”
All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave.
Ugly always had the same reaction. If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around feet in forgiveness. Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love. If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.
One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbors huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly’s sad life was almost at an end.
Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twisted grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran down his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. I must be hurting him terribly I thought.
Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear - Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion.
At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.
Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly. Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply. To give my total to those I cared for.
Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me, I will always try to be Ugly.
That cat is NOT ugly…despite it’s name. It is so adorable. If it ever came near me I would give it the love and care it deserves, not what those terrible people did to it. :’( brb crying until I die.
fuck you i am literally bawling right now..
This… this broke my heart. I’m not even joking. I started crying before I even got half-way through… I’m sitting here crying my eyes out oh my god…. everyone needs to read this, whether it makes them cry, or not. This is the saddest thing ever but it really struck home
You fuck ;.) Ive cried for 50 minutes
