First, the words fly out. Time seems to stop. For an instant, everything seems fine. Then reality sinks in like a mouthful of rancid milk. Stomach acids start to churn in a nuclear fashion. The heat shoots up through every vein, artery and capillary. Fireworks explode under the skin, igniting red flares all over the face. Eyes widen and pupils dialate. The jaw drops just a bit, and remains there for so long that flies can roam freely in and out as they please.
The mind sighs and shuffles through the five stages of grief. First, there is denial. The words couldn't have come out. It simply isn't true. It's all a figment of my imagination. A thought. Nothing more. The next synapse triggers. Anger. The incredible urge to implode, explode and deflate all at once. The skin becomes an enemy and is want to be torn off--if only such puny hands could do it. Next, there is bargaining. God wouldn't let this happen, would He? He can't. Not if He is who everyone thinks He is. Not if He is who I think He is. If He just does me this one favor and changes this, I'll be good. I promise. Then there is depression. Life is worthless. It's all just one big, long rainy day that only ends in death. Death might as well come. It'd be better than this. All the stages of teen angst compress themselves into three seconds of thought. Finally comes acceptance. This did happen. Spontaneous human combustion isn't a thing that can be willed to life. God doesn't buy that you'll be good after this. Being emo was never that cool.
Awareness snaps back into place. The eyes that were just burning holes into bones are now people, like they were a minute or two ago. They have some pity, but mostly just befuddlement. It's no matter, though. Soon enough they'll forget and concentrate on their own moments of self-defeat. At last, the pupils aren't dilated. The arteries have stopped pumping thousands of gallons of blood into the cheeks. The heart rate begins to stabilize. The heat in the pit of stomach acids travels up into the brain, where it burns itself like a little brand. The lungs exhale gratefully and the brain sends a coy little message to the soul. Congratulations, buddy. You just had an embarassing moment.