I ended the previous entry saying that I was going to head out running, but that did not happen. As it got nearer to 7pm, I started feeling ominous rumblings in my bellythe kind that could either be the sign of some harmless gas or the harbinger of the poopocalypse. I stayed in, instead watching a couple of episodes of The Wire with my wife, who ate a fine healthy dinner while I sipped my Soylent with an ever-souring gut. A bit after 8pm, the gas started.
It was bad. These weren't mere ha-ha toot kinds of emissions; this was hair-raising. It was room-clearing, horse-killing, World War I mustard gas-type gas. I migrated from room to room in the house like I was giving up territory to the Kaiser, my face fixed in an expression of horror as green hell-fumes trailed behind me, peeling paint and wilting plants. My wife, bless her heart, said nothing. At some point, I made my way back to the computer and pulled up the e-mail correspondence between Soylent founder Rob Rhinehart and me.
"Other than a bit of gas at first (some people's gut bacteria are not accustomed to the soluble fiber) there have been no adverse reactions," he wrote in response to my question about potential adaptive side effects. Then my eyes started to water from the gas and I had to run back into the living room.