I hate it when that happens

Aww man.  I hate it when that happens.

I mean, all I wanted was a cookie.  
A simple stinking cookie but noooOOOoo.

Heh.  Please.  Allow me start at the beginning.

The homemade cookies were in the kitchen, fresh out of the oven, all hot and waiting packed with melted chocolaty chip goodness inside and caramel yumminess drizzled heavily over the top.  They're my Auntie Diane's specialty and she's been spoiling me with them since I was a kid.  Lured by the intoxicating aroma and the promise of a fabulous treat, I hurried into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk.

That's when that happens.

My stomach starts feeling like I just ate a butt-load of worms and I could feel them squirming and wriggling in my belly.  I'm standing in the middle of the kitchen trying to recall what I possibly could have eaten to cause this nauseating reaction when it's as if they all finally read the same memo and come together.  Suddenly they start pushing on my insides to get to my outsides.  No, not pushing.  More like they've become a battering ram punching again and again against the walls of me.

It feels like an eternity of 2 seconds.

Then suddenly, to my horror, the ram bursts out of my stomach and I find myself staring aghast at what appears to be a 3rd arm and hand.  I can hardly breathe and can barely register the mixture of blood, milk and glass now scattered across the countertop and dripping to the floor.

The new hand comes hastily toward my face and I find myself only able to stare at this new interloper in wide eyed shock.  Before I know it, my lips are clutched by long spindly fingers and violently ripped from my face.  My original arms seem to have gone numb and although I'm in an unbelievable amount of pain, all I can think about is:

How the heck am I going to eat the cookies now?