I got a colonoscopy when I was 13.
I was 13 and DEEP in the midst of a divorce-fueled depression. I could only take so many late night trips truck shopping with dad before I started questioning whether or not the Lariat package was the way to go, or if I’d be better off living with him and my stepmom. He’d regularly sweeten the pot with a trip to White Castle, a restaurant at which my younger brother swore he could out eat me.
In my prime, I probably could have crushed at least 30 of those little burgers, easy. Jared wouldn’t have stood a fucking chance. It would’ve been a real Randy Johnson vs. that one bird scenario. Poof. Over before it began.