Like most similes, I have an anus with a diameter of one metre. Take my (washed) hand as we saunter back to a day when my sphincter wasn't a gaping void, when I would leave wholemeal spaghetti in the toilet bowl to work a little flavour into the food without relying on dangerous levels of salt, when the digested wholemeal spaghetti would look like wholemeal spaghetti once it had completed its deeply personal quest, due in part to the tightness of my anus, and in part to my bleeding piles looking like tomato sauce and the flaking eczema on my buttocks looking like grated cheese.
Cones with metre-wide bases don't make for good beds: over the course of your 8-12 restless hours, you will slip down, you will become irrevocably stretched, and when you wake up it will be too late to reverse the process, however many lemons you squeeze on, in and around. I crave no sympathy, I don't want your pity, some salve would be nice, and if you're going into the kitchen, if you'd get me a glass of water that'd be great, thanks. If you do find yourself in a situation where you are forced to sleep on a large cone, take the time to balance it on its point, then sleep on the large end. Now you may thank me.
What the paragraph break symbolises is the time taken for you to go into the kitchen, pour me a glass of water, make me a quick snack out of the goodness of your heart, but failing to think through your actions at all, and you forgot the salve. I can't eat that: think of the mess. Did you never stop to think that there's probably a reason I sit on the toilet to eat meals? Well yes, the atmosphere is more pleasant, but that's just a bonus. Food just cascades through me, in the vain hope that a little bit of nutrition will catch on the blood clots that line my stomach. Gravity, gravitas, gravad lax, gravitamos, gravitais, gravitan.