3 Awful Experiences Our Brains Always Remember Fondly

At some point in time, you probably sat very still in a quiet moment of painful contemplation and promised yourself that no, you will never ever again do that thing you just did. That thing you just did was horrible. It was horrible and shameful, and right now you're disgusted with yourself for doing it. You feel awful inside and out, and your soul is probably as black and sticky as tar in a hobo's ass crack, and you can't abide it. Never again. And in that moment, you really convinced yourself that this was the last time. You will never be this foolish again.

You are such a filthy little liar.

#3. Bad Food

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Humans and food have a curious and impossible to explain relationship. I imagine there was once a time when eating was as simple as rolling out of the cave in the morning and foraging for some berries. Maybe later you'd attack a gazelle with a sharp stone and you'd have meat for two days until it went off. Things were simple and A-OK.

Today you can choose to eat something that looks like a cupcake but is made of grease-infused wax and is loaded with stuff called polyunsaturated fats and hydrogenated oils and guar gum and phenylalanine. You don't really know what phenylalanine is, but we all trust that the guy who put it in the vat that mixed up the dough that produced 10,000 waxy double-packed cupcakes knows enough about phenylalanine to know that it won't kill us, and, all things being equal, somehow that makes that cupcake better. That phenylalanine is the difference between a sugary treat that tastes OK and a sugary treat that tastes like a moldy, spore-infused death bonbon that will kill us all with painful dysentery. So we should enjoy it.

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"Ye gods, I shouldn't have eaten that hoagie. This opium oughtta help."

Because we as a species today are so willing to eat damn near anything so long as it looks and smells normal and not weird like bugs or liver, we do some terrible things to ourselves totally on purpose, totally willingly and totally aware of what the end result is going to be. For an awesome example of this, I present you with a single word that will elucidate my point better than an entire scientific thesis could: Sriracha.

I love Sriracha. It's my favorite hot sauce, and our world is just lousy with hot sauce choices these days. Go to the store and you'll see dozens of sauce brands. There are probably thousands available, and they come with classy names like Satan's Scorched Anus and Napalm Shits. And the names aren't even hyperbolic, they're accurate descriptions of the ingredients and/or effects of consuming the sauce. Still, I choose Sriracha because I enjoy the flavor as well as the heat. And every single time I eat Sriracha on anything, I pay for it on a cosmic level the next day. Never have I eaten a meal with Sriracha present when I was able to spend the next day skipping along my merry way like Dick Van Dyke in a Disney movie. No, the next day I wake up and I feel like someone took the mat from in front of the toilet and steeped it in an old mop bucket that perhaps Justin Bieber has pissed in, then left it sitting in the sun for a few hours, then took that mashed up bundle and jammed it into my colon. And that mass, that bulky, terrible thing, is now fighting for consciousness. It's pushing about inside of me, prodding and poking with the finesse of a medicated toddler trying to find its way to someplace new, and it's no good.

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This came out of my ass. This exact, flaming pepper.

I lurch my body, which I can't even stretch, into an upright position into the bathroom, and I lament my poor choices for as long as it takes, while small beads of sweat form on my brow and my mouth involuntarily begins to salivate, attempting to wash away the discomfort and pain in the most feeble and desperate of ways. And I'll just be there, doubled over and frowning, alone, for a period of time that a man has no business wasting on a toilet when there are more productive things to be doing, wishing I wasn't such a moron, while it feels like my ass is slowly but very successfully developing pyrokinetic abilities.

If hot sauce isn't your thing, there's likely something. Maybe it's Taco Bell that sends you rocketing into a shame spiral as you munch away on that Los Locos goodness, or perhaps the buffet at Golden Griddle. Hell, maybe it's just the oversized bag of Cheetos you bought for everyone and then ate all by yourself. And when it's all done, you look at what wickedness you wrought and you swear by the heavens that never again will you shame yourself in such a gastronomic fashion. But you will. You will.

#2. Bad Sex

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Sex is one of the hardest things in the world to say no to when you actually want it. You see a lot of comedy based on the loser archetype trying to get laid and failing miserably; this is often portrayed by Jason Biggs. But the less played out story that is just so full of shameful comedy is the flip side of the coin that occurs when you can get laid, but you shouldn't. Man, is that rough.

In the moment, when you're controlled by your baser urges and maybe your judgment isn't all it should be, or maybe you're just experiencing some self-loathing, and you call someone you met on Craigslist and arrange a rendezvous, things can get pretty hairy, and that's not even a metaphor. When humans are at their sexual worst, all bets are off. And we've all known someone (if we didn't do it ourselves) who went home with just a beast of a human, some kind of sexual C.H.U.D., some boner Kryptonite that has no business, no right even, slouching its unclothed and lubricated frame toward anyone we care about. But we can't control our friends, and if you did it yourself, you know what state of mind you were in. There's no way out of it.

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"Hey, ladies, they call me Keith. Keith Cunnilingus!"

In college I had a very good friend who had a habit of manwhoring around and was known to never turn down an offer for any kind of sexual debauchery. He willingly engaged in coitus with the sorts of people who had earned nicknames like "Bushpig" or "Ceiling Bear." Incidentally, that refers to what we imagined you'd think you were looking at if you were a little person looking up her skirt -- a bear clinging to the ceiling. That sounds horrible, I know, and it makes us sound like awful people, but it's worth noting that she was an awful person who once got in a fight with a girl who had cerebral palsy. We came up with the mean-spirited nickname only after we found out she had a toilet for a soul. And then after that my friend boned her. He was a bad man. On the inside, I mean.

When you wake up the next day after engaging in terrible sexinations, you generally feel like you've betrayed yourself and your ancestors and committed some crime against nature on par with humping a mule or a reality TV star. You'll make a promise to never degrade yourself like this again, to never lower yourself to the level of hump puppet for some kind of nicotine-stained gutter slug, because all of those after school specials assured you that you were a good person who deserves good things. But the next time your goodies start a-twitching and there's no one around, you'll probably go right back to slumming for anything willing to put its face near your crotch that doesn't have any obvious sores and seems to not be a hobo or something that lives under bridges and tests travelers with riddles.

I always secretly hoped that women made the same terrible sexual choices that men do, but the number of times I have slept with super hot models indicates that it's probably not on par with what men do at all. Despite that, if anyone ever wants to have some self-destructive, unwholesome sexings, please let me know. I'm happy to be one of your regrets.

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Felix Clay

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