Well, folks, here we are. On the cusp of a much-anticipated (and slightly dreaded) colonoscopy. The doctor assures me it’s a vital step for my long-term health, and who am I to argue with modern medicine, especially when it comes to the mysteries of the human digestive system?The real adventure, however, begins tonight. My task: to consume a whopping 64 ounces of “prep” liquid, in 8-ounce increments, every 15 minutes. If you’ve ever done this, you know the drill. If not, imagine a slightly salty, not-quite-lemonade concoction that promises to thoroughly cleanse your insides. It’s lemon-flavored, which is a plus, but the viscosity… well, it’s odd. Wish me luck!
I plan on updating after every serving and any other events that might occur.
UPDATE 5:30PM
The first glass is down! It wasn’t too bad, actually. A little… medicinal? But entirely manageable. The lemon flavor is definitely there, but that texture is something else. Not quite thick, not quite thin, just… odd. I’m feeling optimistic. This is going to be a breeze, right? I’ve got my trusty water bottle nearby for chaser sips and a good book to keep my mind off the… eventualities. Let the countdown to glass number two begin!
UPDATE 5:45PM
Just polished off glass number two. The good news? The flavor is still… there. The bad news? The “odd viscosity” is becoming less of a quirk and more of an existential threat. It’s like they wanted to create a liquid that makes you question your life choices, and they succeeded.I can’t help but feel like I’m in some kind of weird hydration race, but the only finish line is a pristine colon. So far, the only real change is a slight sense of profound existential dread and a growing appreciation for solid food. Still no movement, but I’m told to be patient. I’m sure the first dramatic act is just waiting for the right moment to make its debut.
UPDATE 6:00PM
Glass number three is history. Still no… grand finale… but I have been blessed with the gift of profound flatulence. It’s a humbling sign of progress, I suppose, a silent promise of what’s to come. It’s like the opening act before the headliner, a polite warning that the main event is just around the corner.
The weird viscosity is really starting to get to me now. It’s that moment where you realize you’re no longer just drinking a beverage, you’re performing a sacred ritual of self-purification. I’m now officially a human filter, and I’m not even getting a free t-shirt for this. Just a deeply, deeply empty feeling in my stomach, and an even emptier feeling in my soul. I’m telling you, the glamour of this whole health and wellness thing is severely overrated.
UPDATE 6:15PM
Alright, glass four is down, and the discomfort has arrived right on schedule, as if it got the memo I’m trying to relax and watch a show. This isn’t just a “tummy ache,” either. It’s more of a low-grade, persistent feeling of, “something is happening, and it’s definitely not going to be fun.”
I can’t help but be reminded of those old fat-free potato chips from the ’90s. Remember those? The ones that promised guilt-free snacking but came with the unexpected side effect of anal leakage? You’d think a product that caused such a profound bodily betrayal would’ve been a one-time experiment, a cautionary tale for all of humanity. And yet, here I am, drinking a potion specifically designed to do… well, pretty much that. I’m now officially asking the most profound question of the evening: is this discomfort merely a prelude to a full-on, chip-induced ’90s throwback? Only time, and probably the next few glasses, will tell.
UPDATE 6:26PM
Well, folks, the moment has arrived. After a tense period of anticipation and enough gas to power a small town, the first movement has officially occurred. This is it. The opening salvo of a long, and I’m sure, very eventful night. The discomfort I mentioned earlier was clearly just the rumbling before the storm, the polite knock on the door before all hell breaks loose.
UPDATE 6:34PM
Just finished glass number five, and with only three more to go, I thought I’d check in on the progress. In a truly bewildering turn of events, my scale, which I was under the distinct impression would be a herald of my impending lightness, has just informed me that I’ve gained 0.9 pounds in water weight.
Let’s just pause to appreciate the utter cosmic irony of this moment. I am actively drinking a concoction designed to evict everything from my person, and the first measurable result is that I’m heavier. It’s like a reverse magic trick. The wizard says, “Prepare to be vanished!” and instead of disappearing, you just get a little bit plumper. It’s utterly nonsensical. This is the universe’s idea of a good joke, apparently. You think you’re working toward a state of nothingness, and it just hands you an extra pound of liquid betrayal. I’m guessing by the end of this I’ll be so full of this foul liquid I’ll be able to float.
UPDATE 6:47PM
Glass number six is down, and we’re on the final countdown now. But a new, deeply philosophical dilemma has emerged. My insides, I can tell, are trying to tell me something. There are hints, murmurs, and subtle pressure changes. But after a lifetime of professional training that taught me to ignore these biological whispers and wait for a proper break, I am utterly lost.
Am I supposed to run to the bathroom every time I feel a vague, unsettling sensation? Or do I wait for that undeniable, “you are about to make a terrible mistake in a very public way” feeling? This is less of a medical procedure and more of a psychological battle between my disciplined work self and my primal, soon-to-be-empty self. It turns out the biggest challenge of this cleanse isn’t the odd viscosity or the newfound water weight, it’s unlearning decades of bathroom break repression.
UPDATE 7:00PM
Glass number seven is officially down, and the second movement has made its long-awaited debut. We are now one glass away from the finish line, and frankly, my body is starting to stage a rebellion. The nausea has arrived, and it’s brought a pounding headache as its plus-one. I’m guessing this is my body’s polite protest against the fact that I’ve been running on what amounts to sugar water and savory-scented hot water all day. Four hundred calories. That’s not a diet; that’s a hostage situation.
And yet, in a turn of events that only adds to the sheer absurdity of this evening, my blood sugar remains surprisingly stable. The weight, that ever-present harbinger of liquid betrayal, is exactly the same as it was a while ago. It seems that while my insides are trying to stage a coup, the data is maintaining a stoic, “everything is fine” façade. The grand paradox continues.
One final glass. One last chance for this lemon-flavored liquid to make its case before it, and everything else, is unceremoniously evicted. The end is in sight.
UPDATE 7:15PM
The eighth and final glass is down. I can’t quite believe it. The evening’s festivities have concluded, at least in a liquid-consumption sense. The cocktail hour, which has been going on for the better part of two hours, has finally come to an end. It’s a bittersweet farewell to my favorite lemon-flavored, high-viscosity libation. I’ll miss our little get-togethers. Almost. I get to do it again starting at 5:30am.
I’m now in a state of anticipatory emptiness, a kind of pre-spiritual void where the only thing on my mind is food. I really, really want food. I’ve been dreaming of solid sustenance for hours. My body, which has been relentlessly purging itself, is now screaming for a single, glorious cracker. Just a cracker, a simple monument to crunchiness and salt.
And with that, I wait. I’ve done my part. The rest is up to the great, living forces of internal plumbing. I’ll keep you all updated on the nighttime happenings, as I’m sure this party isn’t quite over yet. The night is young, but my resolve to eventually eat something that isn’t transparent is even younger.
UPDATE 8:40PM
It’s been a while since my last update, and I’ve been waiting for the grand finale. The moment where all the liquid I’ve consumed would finally, irrevocably, turn into a dramatic and conclusive sign of progress. I was expecting so much more. I was promised an epic purge, a kind of internal revolution, a Biblical flood of sorts.
And yet, here we are. Nothing substantial has happened. The great internal party seems to have gone quiet. The living forces of my gastrointestinal tract, which were making so much noise and causing so much… movement… earlier, have apparently decided to take a break. It’s the ultimate anti-climax. I’m sitting here, a human water balloon, waiting for the inevitable, and nothing.
It’s like the final act of a play where the actors just decided to sit down and stare at the audience. It’s deeply, profoundly disappointing. I’m just here, a beacon of human endurance and misplaced hope, waiting for the show to resume.
Justin Lockridge 
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