"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.
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.