>>6
I thought I would read the first one too, just so that I could get pissed at it and have actual reasons, not just hearsay.
I made it seven pages. Then I felt this odd tickling in the back of my throat. What is that sensation? I shook it off and kept reading.
Fifteen pages. The feeling was growing stronger.
Thirty four pages. My mouth was dry, and it felt like my stomach was turning over and over inside me. My sphincter was clenched tight.
Fifty one pages. Daggers of pain shot through my intestines, and my throat was rippling, heaving, and my thigh muscles twitched. I glanced down at the floor to try and collect myself, and burped, tasting vomit. Oh god. I looked back at the book in front of me, and my stomach heaved. My jaw shot open, and what felt like gallons of putrescent slime blew out of my mouth and hit the pages, knocking the novel from my hands, the vomit flowing down, covering the surface of the book and the desk I was sitting at.
The vomit stopped after a moment, and I gasped for air, feeling chunks of that afternoon's lunch around my teeth. It looked like things had settled down, and for the time being the pain in my gut seemed to have stopped, along with the vomit. I wiped the viscous fluid from the folds of the pages, and continued. Vomit be damned, I was going to finish this book.
Sixty eight pages. The tickling in the back of my throat was back. I pressed on, ignoring the stench in the room.
Seventy seven pages. The stabbing, shooting pains were back. Oh dear god, please don't let that happen again.
Eighty pages. It becomes necessary to expend a conscious effort to keep my anus shut.
Ninety one pages. The pain becomes so bad I have to put down the book. This time I place a bookmark inside and close the covers. The pain ebbs and flows, and when it spikes for the fourth time, I lose all control. I am lost in a world of pain, an eternity that extends in all directions. A million demons claw my stomach out, like Prometheus chained to the rock, only to have it regrow and be clawed out again. Liquidized feces erupts from between my asscheeks, spurting out, running in torrents down my leg, bubbling up over the waistband of my pants and spilling on the to chair and the floor below. I fall to the floor, but the shit continues to burn its way out of me, like the worst Taco Bell in the history of man. The Golgotha climbs out of my ass. I am a lactose-intolerant man attempting the Gallon Challenge, I am four-day old shrimp, I am every case of Chinese-food poisoning the world has seen. Tears run freely down my face. I scream for mother. I consider undoing my pants, but my hands clutch at the carpet, white knucked and scrabbling.
After what seems like millenia, the plume of white-hot diarrhea seems to have slowed, so I glance to the shitpocolypse behind me. Raw sewage coats every surface: the chair, the wall behind it, the face of my computer tower, the dresser behind that. Incredibly, I find some unused reserves, and I begin to vomit again.
I only have four hundred and fifty three pages to go.
And that, my friend, is why you should never read Twilight.