Look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood.

It’s a dangerous life. You’re always fighting demons, you’re seconds away from your insides exploding, and you’ve got to think twice before you eat at a mortal restaurant like Taco Bell. Believe me. But this is a warning—you can read the rest of this like it’s satire, and honestly, good for you. I wish I could do that. But if some of you feel a churning within while you’re reading, it’s a calling. You don’t have IBS, you’re a half-blood too.

I’m Odysseus Smith, and I first found out I was a half-blood on a Thursday morning after downing a large cold brew from Free Speech Movement Cafe, when suddenly a tugging in my gut led a 3rd floor Moffitt toilet to explode. There was only one other man who’d accomplished a similar feat, a Perseus Jackson of Percy Jackson and the Olympians lore. There was only one explanation—I was a son of Poseidon. Ever since then, I’ve been recruiting others just like me to the common half-blood cause, urging impressionable 12-17 year olds to stop attempting mortal “remedies” like fiber pills, probiotics, and physician care and instead to embrace their inner half-blood by sacrificing scrapings of their food to ancient Greek deities and fighting their bloody, gory battles at the risk of the loss of life and limb.

Some will go “Ody, that’s ridiculous and cultish. You need to accept that you have IBS and seek medical help. Get a colonoscopy or something” but you don’t see them exploding toilets or experiencing severe (demigodly) bowel pain. That tugging in my gut is the mark of Poseidon, and I don’t need a camera in my ass to prove it. I’m one of the most powerful demigods of the last millennium, and if my irreversible damage to the Moffitt Library plumbing isn’t proof enough, you should see my superhuman speed running home after some Yogurt Park. You’ll barely catch me, a blur breaking through the flatulence-ridden air of the night, with a grace and (rectal) strength unparalleled by even the great Achilles. 

If any of that resonated with you—if people have told you you just have IBS or a gluten allergy—you might be special. You might be one of us. There’s only one place that’s safe for you, and it’s Camp Half Blood’s West Coast Extension campus located right above the Berkeley Parking and Transportation office on University Avenue you didn’t know existed. You’ll be met by a tired administrative staff overcharging students for replacement Clipper cards, but don’t worry, that’s just our security staff doubling as a front for our wildly illegal/shady youth militia recruitment program. See you soon!

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