Do iiiittt

"Just do it," she whispered from a distance, quoting the Nike commercial horribly out of context for reasons I couldn't even begin to fathom. I held my ground, my hands in my pockets so she couldn't see they were shaking.
"Do it now!" She slammed her fist on the table.
"Fine, jeez." I took a deep breath and cautiously advanced on the jar of cinnamon. I saw a grin appear on her face. My steps were ridiculously small in an attempt to buy time. "Why am I doing this again?" No answer.
I was at the table. Slowly, I pulled my hands out of my pockets. She handed me the spoon. I took it, feeling the cold horror of unfeeling steel on my fingers. With my other hand, I took the jar from the table and flipped the lid with my thumb.
There I was, staring into the reddish brown hell. Demonic granules faced me, waiting with infinite menace for their opportunity to turn into a nebular horror.
Trying to keep my hand steady, I dipped the spoon into the cinnamon. The stainless steel tip disappeared beneath the desert of anguish. My heart was beating in my throat and I looked at her, hoping to find a quantum of mercy in her face. I found only anticipatory glee.
I tilted the spoon and pulled it out of the jar. It was filled to the brim with the nightmarish spice. As I lowered the jar to the table with one hand, it took all my concentration to keep the other steady. With every heartbeat I felt my hand tremble and watched with horror as I nearly spilled some cinnamon from the spoon.
Then the jar connected with the table and I heard the clink of salvation as the plastic surface relieved me of my duty to hold the glass container. I gripped the spoon firmly with both hands.
I had been avoiding my fate for years, but now it was over. My nemesis had found me. No more running. It was going to end here and now.1

I turned the spoon, its tip facing me like a hilariously deformed spear - only I wasn't laughing. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth. The spoon approached. My weakness overcame me and I flinched, closing my eyes. Blinded to the horror that was bearing down on me, I could do nothing but wait. For an eternity, I was alone in the darkness with only crippling fear to keep me company, clutching at my throat.
At last I felt the steel belly of the spoon brush against my lip. The hateful utensil tilted and released its destructive payload into my mouth. I tried to keep control of my body, but I could feel convulsions pulsing inside me. Suddenly, panic barged into my mind like a drunken trucker into a wedding and all sense left me. I opened my eyes and tried to spit the cinnamon out, but I discovered that it had attached itself to my tongue like glue.
I coughed and saw a brown mist escape from my mouth. She was laughing. I tried to breathe, but the cinnamon spilled into my airway and attacked my lungs. Wild with panic, I flailed around the room. She laughed even harder. My hand knocked the jar from the table and a reddish brown smoke filled the room. I was blind. I was dying. Things started to flash before my eyes. Spoons, forks, funerals.
Then there was light in the darkness as I remembered something. I flailed around the room with renewed purpose, seeing in my mind's eye my salvation: a bottle of water. I knew it was on the table somewhere, and I threw myself at the square surface. My hands slipped over the empty table, finding nothing but spilled cinnamon. Cinnamon. It was everywhere. It was in my mouth, in my nose, in my lungs, in my eyes, in my brains. It was in my soul.2

"Looking for this?" There was immeasurable malice in her voice. I turned my head groggily. Her vague silhouette held up the bottle of water. Sudden rage overtook me and my fear turned to anger. I attacked with righteous fury, smashing her across the face with my clenched fist. She squealed in pain. I snatched the bottle from her hands and, wasting no time to fiddle with the cap, smashed the neck of the bottle over her head. I drank from the broken bottle, feeling the water wash away the cinnamon even as the splintered glass cut my lips. 3

Finally, the bottle was empty and clarity returned to my mind. The worst of the cinnamon was gone. I threw the empty bottle on the ground, breaking what was left of it, and stood over her prone form triumphantly. She cried and clutched her face, staring up at me with horror. I looked down at her and grinned. I had passed the cinnamon challenge.
"You said I couldn't do it," I said heroically. "Five bucks, pay up."