There’s a story I want to tell in all its glory, a perfect Kodak Moment that should be the one by which all other Kodak Moments are judged. It happened some weeks ago, and it involves a humiliating situation in a very public place—pants falling, alarms going off, you know, that sort of Kodak moment.

The thing is, I don’t really feel free to tell that story because it involves someone else, and for their sake I’d rather not share their humiliation on the internet. Granted, they didn’t feel at all embarrassed at the time, but I did and still do (enough for the two of us), and if they gave it any real consideration, they’d be embarrassed, too.

So maybe I’ll give this story another few weeks, or months, or years before I even think again about telling it. Heck, it took me years to even consider whether or not I should tell the enema story, and if you’ve read everything in this journal, you know that the Self-Censor won that particular argument because I’ve never even posted an enema story or even a hint of it.

Until now, that is.

So here I sit, with so much story inside of me and nothing to post except maybe this piece of advice:

Never ever eat more than five whole mangoes entirely on your own in one sitting. The effect on your bowel system, days and weeks after your body’s initial reaction to the fruit, could be really, utterly, freakishly disastrous.

Not that I’d have any personal experience with that or anything.

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