I was expecting failure to taste bad.
Like a burst aneurysm occurring at the very back of my throat, a weakened vessel choking and frothing and overflowing out of my disgusted rictus, though I am unable to stop it.
Or a rancid meatloaf comprised of all this sinful world’s filth and vices, shoved haplessly and overcooked in an untempered oven by Coraline’s button eyed, arachnid form mother.
Or maybe a deceased decaying goldfish of a sadistic child, given a couple dips in the yellowing chloride loo for good measure and then swallowed whole for a final swim down the gullet.
Perhaps a pulsating papule, filled with blood, pus, sweat, excrement, scabs, and tears, a viscous abomination, almost self sufficient, raring to be popped by a curious lingering fingernail.
Dare I even say a dead roadkill, preferably a hedgehog or a possum, its uncoiled ropes of smashed viscera scattered all over the 97 intersection, rotting carcass gathered up by a redneck for dinner.
Or even just my Neanderthal of an older brother’s unwashed sports socks, tossed into the overflowing laundry basket after a long day of intense football practice, under the afternoon heat.
At the very least, that. Something vile, putrid, regurgitation-worthy of a disgusting meal, something that keeps me from stuffing it back in my gluttonous yet highly clueless mouth, like salty PlayDoh.
But surprisingly, failure tastes a lot like a chocolate mint. Refreshing to the tongue, with a sweet recoil and a bitter hint of an aftertaste.
Suffice it to say, I may try it again anytime soon.