It's not funny, my ass is on fire

I was considering putting a post up praising the nachos I made myself for dinner last night. I was going to go in to detail about how I meticulously layered the chips on the baking pan, evenly spread out the jalapenos, black olives, diced onions and tomatoes. I was going to tell you about the perfect 60/40 sharp cheddar to pepper jack ratio. And about how when I pulled the pan out of the oven I topped the perfectly melted cheese with sour cream, black bean salsa and few dashes of Frank's red hot with lime. These nachos were so fucking good I was planing on having them again tonight. That was before. Before the night of endless farting. Before the morning shit that brought tears to my eyes. Before the second bowel movement that erased any inklings of hope I still held onto that there was in fact a God. Now I know why there is toilet paper with aloe. It no longer seems like a mere coincidence that toilet starts with TOIL. Ughh, I'm never eating nachos again.