#traumaverse

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we’re ill in the head and came up with characters and plopped them into different universes, hence the traumaverse. they have so much trauma (and silliness :D) to unpack!

this blog is run by hydropyxis🪼 and astroinsomniac💫 !!

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the universes (for now):

- gotham

This post is about a story that ran rampant through TikTok when I was on it—and based on the email notifications is still kicking. Upon a quick view, this thing is up to almost 18M views, and my internet legacy is me shitting myself, so you guys might as well enjoy it too lmao.

CW/TW for: vomit/shit, and mentions of physical disability+illness

I present to you…

The Pizza Hut Incident

At one point my partner and I lived with his parents and they had a weekly pizza night.

Every Thursday was the same thing, we chose a spot to eat, ordered pizza and typically watched movies.

On this particular week, as indicated by the title, we chose Pizza Hut.

So we all eat our dinner, right? Everything is fine. I’m a little queasy, but that’s no big deal. I’ll just sleep it off.

3am rolls around. I am drenched in sweat. I feel like my abdomen is going to explode. I feel like I’m going to be sicker than I ever have in my life.

I hop out of bed as fast as my little disabled legs can. I run to our bathroom, the one that connects to our bedroom.

It’s fine. It’s safe. I made it to the toilet, so there’s nothing to worry about, right?

WRONG.

I sit down and frankly, I’m taking the most horrendous dump that I’ve ever taken in my life. Seconds later, I start vomiting.

Straight up out of the exorcist.

Projectile.

I start to feel incredibly light-headed. I am pouring sweat at this point.

It’s like a goddamn waterfall from my forehead, ass, and mouth all at once.

I think to myself

This is it

This is how I die.

I am going out Elvis style.

I am going to go out, covered in my own bodily fluids, in a room that’s also covered.

So, with no idea what to do, and convinced that these are the last 10 minutes of my life, what do I do?

I stand up.

I had to make it to my partner. If I’m going out like this, I at least needed to tell him—one last time—that I loved him.

I immediately fall over. My legs work less than they normally do.

I begin to army crawl, still covered in my own liquids, desperate to say my last goodbyes.

I make it to the bed, which is about 30-40 feet from our bathroom. But there’s one problem, it’s high up.

This bed sits about 3-4 feet off the ground.

My partner is a heavy sleeper.

I use all of my might, and I smack upwards in his general direction a couple of times with what I can only describe as a limp noodle of an arm.

He wakes up. He looks the most confused that I’ve ever seen him. I tell him

“I’m dying and I needed you to know that I love you”

This man is still 1/2 asleep.

He does not have a working nose and it is dark.

He does not know the horrors in the next room.

He shines a phone light at me, catching a small chunk of the crime scene in the background. He tilts the phone past me.

There is a trail. I am whiter than I already am.

Translucent.

I look as though literal death has come to take me away.

He tries to help me to my feet.

I am too weak, for I am dying. I tell him so.

He goes to the bathroom, as I am fading in and out of consciousness. I am seeing the light.

It is important to note here that I am still shitting. I have been this entire time.

At this point, he’s panicking.

He calls out to his parents. His mother meets him at the door.

“It can’t be that bad,” she remarks, “why does Vee need to go to the hospital?”

She peers around him into the room.

I am naked and I am covered in fluids. The bathroom looks like a bomb went off.

“Oh,” she says. She asks no further questions.

My partner helps me get dressed. We walk across the house to the garage.

I am still shitting.

We make it to the car. I have a towel under me. It does not matter.

For the ride over, I kept apologizing.

All the windows were down and that didn’t matter either.

We make it to the hospital. They give me medication to make me stop shitting myself and they give me anti-nausea meds to stop the puking.

They give me IV fluids for dehydration.

They couldn’t tell me what was wrong with my stomach.

They remarked “oh, it’s probably food poisoning or something”

They tell me that I need a CAT scan.

And they didn’t find anything for my stomach. But they did find something.

The doctor walks in…

“Hey,

Did you know you have a hip tumor?”

I did not.

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X-Ray of tumor after it was removed:

My friend drew this incredible comic of my characters from ghost boys for one of their projects, look how awesome it turned out!!

“Yeah, well, good luck with that. Heard Arachno’s great at given’ wild chases.” Sansa adds on.

“Y’think if I knock myself out on this table I’ll get workman’s comp?” Seikoshi queries, fully ready to bash his head into it.

“I think you’d get a concussion and a psych eval.” The cat replies, smile clear in his tone.

“What a bunch of bullshit.” Seikoshi groans into his hands.