Brooding Thoughts On Another Night of Dread

It is dark and night outside my window, and in the soundless, lit confines of my room I sit at my old, ivory desk cheerless and anxious with dread for what the rest of another night may bring. My ostomy bag, an abhorrent creature that hugs precariously on one side of my abdomen, covers my raw and fleshy stoma underneath. Against my desire, the stoma continually oozes feces and waste like a sewer into the ostomy bag, which, every seven days or so ruptures its seal and transforms into a stinking and rancid cabbage whose fetid odor refuses to stop emanating until the entire, offensive beast is immediately uprooted from my body. So, I sit at my ancient, ivory desk, writing these cherry-picked words to express the anxiety and the doldrums of another night; and the lonely, isolating, embarrassing, humiliating, ego-wiping, self-esteem killing, mind-numbing, soul-shattering, universal, all-embracing, omni-present stench that weekly offends my nostrils and fills my lungs because of a thoroughly used-up ostomy bag that needs to be removed immediately like an old, decaying vegetable that has outlived its freshness— It is another cheerless night in the same, old cheerless space: the nose-blistering smell, however, is only for another night....