They preach on and on about how after this kind of tragedy, you can just go on and turn around and pick up all of the pieces. That’s a load of horse crap. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. Sure, I’ve seen people do that, and it always amazes me, especially now, seeing what I’ve seen and experiencing what I’ve experienced. I mean, how can you just move on after you’ve witnessed a massacre.

Okay, so maybe I didn’t actually witness a massacre, but I almost did. I mean, I was practically in the next room. Who knows? Maybe I would’ve been killed if I hadn’t got diarrhea from that nasty cheesecake they were serving at the deli at that convenience store. Had it not been for the cheesecake, I’d probably be dead right now as we speak. Yeah, that’s it, I’d probably be dead.

I heard all of the gunshots, but I didn’t think they were gunshots. See, the convenience store this all happened at also sold firecrackers, and I just thought that some over anxious kids couldn’t wait to get home. I didn’t think much of it. Even though it seemed a tad bit weird, I still thought nothing of it. I mean, why should I? Kids will be kids.

You know, looking back I’d have to say that all of my actions that day really made no sense and were more foolish than lucky. What was even more odd was when I heard all of those sirens. I wasn’t thinking too clearly, but that was probably because of the diarrhea. Honestly, I was lost in my own world, thinking as one does on the toilet. I don’t know about you, but I feel so comfortable when I’m on the toilet, thinking about all of that I have to think about, but that’s just me, I suppose.

To tell you the truth, I was on the toilet for more than an hour, and not once did anyone come in and disturb me. It was absolutely peaceful. Actually, it was too peaceful, but like I told you before, I was too caught up with myself to think about what was going on in the world outside the bathroom doors. Thinking about how much I enjoyed being on that toilet makes me wonder whether I am sick for enjoying it so much, or a fool for being so taken away by it all.

After more than an hour, I was done in my little paradise It felt so good, but at the same time, I did leave quite a foul stench. I figured that if I could leave quietly and just leave the store without drawing attention to myself, no one would know that it was me who funked up the men’s bathroom. If I could stick with the plan, all I’d have to do is worry about whether or not the next tourist in "paradise" didn’t get to congested by the smell.

The location of the bathroom was behind the convenience store and not inside, or to the side, which is probably why no one bothered to disturb me. I stuck to my plan, but I ran into a barrage of law enforcement officers. I won’t go and try to give you some kind of comic relief about how I thought the cops were there because they had reason to believe I was the Funky Bandit and they were there to make an example out of me for the purposes of cleanly, fresh air environment. No, that’s what happened and I can’t pretend that was the case so we can all feel better. No, I didn’t think that they were there for me, but I did go and try to find out what had happened, because I am human and as a human I had to fulfill tow human obligations. Stink and be curious, so after doing one, I went to the center of the panic to find out what was going on.

I ran around to the front and saw all of the broken glass and it was then that I had realized that it wasn’t over zealous kids with firecrackers, but a psycho-deranged lunatic with a machine gun. I looked around and saw all of the blood and bodies and flashing lights. That was when I had my nervous breakdown.

I don’t know what it was that caused it to all click, but something just sent me over the edge. Maybe it was the possibility of my possible demise, or maybe it was seeing all of that carnage. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know why I would even go over the edge like I did, but it just happened that way. Eerie.

What’s even weirder than all of this what I did once I "lost it." In all definitions of the word, I went crazy. First, I started screaming. Nothing specific, just screaming. I’m sure that I did have some words to come out of my mouth, but I don’t remember for sure what they were, because I doubt they had any relevance to anything whatsoever. To make things even weirder, I was doing anything except standing between an entourage of emergency vehicles and the makeshift graveyard, staring at all the bloodshed, screaming. I wasn’t doing anything in particular, but I was screaming.

I don’t think any of the paramedics or police officers quite understood my presence in all of this. I know this because they tried to have me forcibly removed. I was spared the humiliation of an escort by the man who had served me the cheesecake that you could say probably saved my life. What I later found out is that the cheesecake man hid behind the counter and waited for all of the gunfire to stop. He was a coward, like I would have been, if I had been in his exact situation.

I stayed at the scene for more than four hours after my hour long stay in "paradise." The police asked me a few questions and then they were finished. It didn’t take as long as one would expect, probably because I had nothing to do with what had happened in the store , because I was in the bathroom while it all happened. Their questions weren’t difficult, just the same old same old. "Did I know the lunatic?" as well as the standard questions about my history. Like I said, nothing of great importance. They were disappointed when I told them my story , because it was a boring story to tell. So they completed the standard information and let me on my way. All together, that took about fifteen minutes, for questions about one hour of my life.

What did I do for the rest of the time, while the excitement was gradually dying down? Nothing really. I thought a lot, and just soaked up the atmosphere. To tell you the truth, it was kind of addictive. There was something pulling and keeping me there. No matter what, I couldn’t leave. I mean, I wanted to, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t really feel uncomfortable about it, because I wasn’t the only one who stayed around. There were photographers, reporters, onlookers, not to mention the cheesecake man who later told me his name was Pete.

You can sort of say that Pete and I had kind of bonded. Not because we were the only two survivors, but because we both got sick from the cheesecake. During one of our bonding sessions (where we just ate lunch at a fast food restaurant), Pete told me that it was his wife who made the cheesecake. Unfortunately, she was killed in the massacre.

What Pete never told anyone was why he was really on the floor. What had happened was this: Pete was eating some of the cheesecake his wife had made, when all of a sudden he got real sick to the stomach. No, it wasn’t quick reflexes that sent Pete to the ground, but collapsing from extreme sickness.