Letters, part two.

(A continuation of this post.)

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FROM: "._." <"stomach@wrensbody.com">
TO: "-.-"<"brain@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: What.

Brain:
I swear, if I make it out of this alive, I am climbing up our esophagus and ripping you out of that skull of yours.

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FROM: "i want to die" <"brain@wrensbody.com">
TO: "stfu"<"stomach@wrensbody.com">
SUBJECT: RE: Just stop.

Stomach:
Quit your pansy-ass whining, or I'll drink this shit faster. I'm the one who's suffering here, NOT YOU. You can't SEE the way this stuff won't dissolve Crystal Light. You don't SEE how much of it we still have left to drink.

And Holy Shit. You can't TASTE it. You can't even FATHOM how sickeningly reminiscent this stuff is of wet baby powder, currently flavored with lemons in. You also can't FEEL the way it coats our mouth grittily and then just kind of sliiiiiides down our throat.

All you have to do is channel it on into our intestines. So please. Leave me to wallow in my misery. Or I may snap and kill us both so I don't have to order our hands to pick up the glass and our throat to swallow anymore.

I will be signing out of my e-mail account until further notice. Please do not try to contact me, as I have every intention of being comatose on the floor under a blanket.

The Brain.

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...four glasses down. That's 24 oz. I think I am going to vomit.